Page 154 of Ruin Me Gently

“Eleven days.”

I practically choked on the coffee. “Eleven?” I wheezed, setting the mug down so I wouldn’t drop it.

“Yeah.”

“Eleven days?” I repeated, like he might suddenly change his answer to something less horrifying.

“Yeah.”

Okay. Okay. Processing.

“Right. And where is here?” My fingers tapped once against the counter. “Airbnb? Hotel? Why am I not home?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “No. This is my home. And you’re not at your home because it’s not safe.”

I forgot the last part instantly, my brain latching onto one thing only. I looked around again, taking in the massive open space, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the insane view stretching out over the city.

Then I turned back to him, eyes wide. “Thisis your house?”

“This is mypenthouse.”

I stared. Then I laughed—a slightly unhinged, borderline maniacal laugh that scraped its way out of my throat before I could stop it. “Right. Right. So, obviously I’m in a fever dream right now.”

He didn’t say a word, and when my laugh fizzled out, reality settled in. I looked down at myself, at the oversized shirt hanging loose over my frame, at the sweats that were cinched at my waist, at the bruises peeking out from the collar.

I lifted my gaze to his. “What’s all this?”

His expression shifted, like he was choosing his words very, very carefully. “Clark.”

The name landed like a punch to the ribs. My fingers lifted to my temple, brushing against the stitches again, but nothing came back. No flashes of memory. No sudden, violent clarity. Just a hollow, gaping space where something should’ve been. I fucking hated when this happened.

“Why?” I asked.

His throat bobbed, fingers flexing quietly against the counter. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” My voice was sharper than I meant it to be, and guilt immediately flickered in my belly. “What does that mean? He just—what? Decided to do this for fun?”

He stayed completely still, eyes locked on mine.

“Tell me what happened. Please,” I said.

“Lilith…” His jaw tightened for a beat before it softened again, his voice calm. “I don’t know. I was going to find you after work,” he said. “But you weren’t there. The store was closed early.”

My stomach dipped. He was coming to find me?

“I looked for you. I tried calling. You didn’t answer.” His fingers tapped once against the counter. “I was searching for you, and I found you.”

“And?”

“Clark was—” he ran a hand through his curls. “You were on the ground. He was—” the words stuck in his throat.

I squeezed my eyes shut, head tipping forward. “Okay. Then what?”

“I brought you straight here,” he said. “You were in and out of consciousness. My doctor checked you over. A nurse came in for the first week, giving you painkillers and fluids. She helped you dress, helped you… with everything.”

Oh, thank God.

Relief washed through me so fast I nearly fell off the stool. He hadn’t seen me. Hadn’t seen what was under the shirt, the scars, the damage. For some reason, that sent a fresh wave of gratitude washing through me. Then, almost immediately, I caught myself. That should’ve been the least of my worries.

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