Page 117 of Painted Scars
“I deserve that.” His voice trails off.
Yeah, not traveling that slippery path just yet. Too many other competing priorities, survival foremost. I switch to address that.
“What am I going to do?” I curl over my mug and blow on the steaming liquid. “In a dark romance, the thumb is equivalent to a bouquet or love letter. In the real world, it’s an aggravated assault perfect for headlines. The Romans won’t let that go unpunished.”
His jaw ticks. “That’s the future. We handlenowfirst. Your safety is my priority. Then we go after that fucking creep.”
Words that should calm me, yet a splinter of panic sticks. Tomorrow is coming and it knows our names.
Another breath. And another. Sip in between. Warm up from the tea trickling down my throat. The more I repeat this, the easier it is to string together thoughts.
I get out one. “Okay. Tell me the planfor now. What if Burt dies? You stabbed him multiple times.”
Darkness pools in the corners of his face. “I stabbed him where he’ll feel it every time he takes a step.”
I smile a little at that.
August adopts Officer Kelly mode and commences a precise list. “First, we take care of you. Concussion protocol. My clinician will examine you. Don’t worry. No hospital records. Non-negotiable.”
“Bossy,” I mutter, but nod.
“Alive,” he corrects in a tone that brooks no argument. “Do you consent?”
I wrap an arm around my waist. “Yes, I consent.” Fighting him takes up more energy than I have.
August calls out his phone and gets in contact with his clinician. “He’ll be here within the hour. I also wish to examine you every twenty minutes. Do you consent to that?”
“Whatever you feel is necessary,” I mutter. “My first aid is very rusty.”
He gets me a blanket from his bed and wraps me in it, careful not to linger too long or brush my hands as he normally does. “Call my name if your symptoms change.”
My heart mourns the loss of contact and the way he used to brush me without asking.
I nod my agreement.
He takes the seat next to me, sitting straight and stiff, resuming his plan. “Second, we document everything while it’s fresh. Photos of every mark with timestamps, and your written account of what happened. I know you don’t want to go through that all again after what happened, but it’s important.”
My hands ache from squeezing the mug. “For your articles?”
“If Burt comes for you, your account needs to be airtight.” He says it softly, more lullaby than cop. “Don’t give these fuckers any room to concoct a false narrative.”
He’s not building a case for the police or his mission, he’s building a wall around me. Protect until the end. Choosing me with every careful step. I want to stay mad, but this sways me back to team Grumpy Daddy.
Fuck. Celine comes to me with the question:Where Does My Heart Beat Now?I can’t tell her. Darkness swallowed the sun. Secrets dulled my sparkle. Betrayal bruised me. I need time to process.
“Do it.” I pat around my throbbing forehead.
He goes to reassure me with a touch and tucks his hand under his crossed arms. “I’ll record everything, if you want. My associate will save and distribute it to dead drops and leave no single point of failure.”
“Okay.” I listen and drink. Repeat. Mint and honey steam my face, and I inhale the sweet smell for comfort.
“Third.” He throws a thumb up. “We assume the Romans retaliate with a smear and pre-build our counter-argument with HR complaints, NDAs, hush money, and the camera footage my associate has been collecting since the first incident.”
Shit. He’s prepared. More than prepared. This is the revenge story.
“That’s good.” I rub my cracked, dry lips.
“Fourth—if they push for an arrest, we’ll get you out of town, somewhere safe. I don’t trust they won’t plant evidence or erase yours.” He takes a long breath. “We lawyer up, control optics, show the pattern and receipts before the Romans twist the story.”
