Page 62 of Power
I hissed, wincing away, but only for a moment. Because now that I was looking at him, I could see a red spot nearhiseye that was already starting to swell. Much more than mine.
“You’re hurt,” I said, reaching up without thinking. And then I scouredhisbody because, holy shit, my dad had a knife.
“Did he get you anywhere else?” Jace demanded.
“Did you get stabbed?”
“Your cheekbone might be broken.”
I lifted his suit jacket, looking at his abs, his chest, his arms for any signs of a slice.
“Youreye’s swelling,” I said, my hand hovering near his face.
“We need to get this looked at.” His eyes never left my injury.
“I’m fine,” I said, but it seemed to go unheard. “Are you okay?”
Jace pulled out his phone, called a quick number, and relayed our situation and our address. Moments later, as if summoned by magic billionaire powers, a black sedan pulled up.
“Get in the car.” Strange how those same identical words, spoken moments before from a different man, carried the weight of a threat while Jace’s carried the weight of protection.
Jace opened the door, motioning for me to get into the back seat with all the patience of a man used to being obeyed instantly.
“I’m not leaving my mother,” I said.
His expression softened. “Didn’t intend for you to. Both of you, please get in.”
An impatient driver pulled up behind the sedan, honking.
“I need to get my mom inside. And call the police,” I protested, even as the adrenaline started to ebb, leaving my cheek throbbing in its wake.
“The police have already been called,” Jace stated matter-of-factly. “They’re meeting us at the hospital.”
“What? By whom?” Andwhyare they meeting us at the hospital? My eyebrows shot up, and then I immediately regretted the movement as pain lanced through my cheek.
HONK, HONK. “Move out of the way!” some dude shouted from his car.
Jace turned, and whatever look he flashed the driver must’ve been bone-chilling in its warning because the guy slumped down in his seat. Unfortunately, there was another car behind him, who joined in on the impatience train.
“My driver called them,” Jace said, turning back to me. “Now, please get in, Scarlett.” The way he said my name—not quite pleading, not quite commanding—did something to my insides.
Around us, the scene was unfolding like a bad movie: a line of cars honking, angry drivers waiting for us to move, while pedestrians slowed their movements, staring at us like freaks.
I looked at my mom, at Jace, at the growing spectacle around us.
“Get in, Mom,” I finally said, guiding her toward the car.
As I slid in beside her, I caught Jace’s eye. There was relief there and something else. Something that made me remember that not all men were created with my father’s capacity for cruelty.
“How did you know to come here?” I asked.
33
SCARLETT
“This seriously was unnecessary.” I shifted uncomfortably on the paper-covered gurney that crinkled with every movement, the smell of alcohol wipes mingling with the slight tang of blood.
He’d refused to answer why he’d shown up at my apartment, too fixated on inspecting my injuries and making sure I was physically okay first.
