Was he annoyed?
Was he mad at me?
Was he going to yell?
It took him a few seconds to recover — after which, he’d strode across the clearing, hauled me into his arms, and kissed me.
Hard.
Not a chaste peck that said, ‘I’m happy to see you.’ Not an appropriate lip-brush that took into consideration the number of onlookers milling about. It was a full on, no holds barred, long, deep, wet kiss. With tongue. A kiss that said, ‘to hell with everyone watching, to hell with everyone in the whole damn world, I can’t live another second without your mouth on mine and I don’t care who knows it.’
It was unquestionably the best kiss of my life.
Pulling back, he’d traced his fingers along the bruise I knew was turning my entire eye socket blacker and bluer with each passing hour.
This, he did not do hard. This, he did soft. Like he was afraid, if he touched me, I might shatter to glass in his hands.
“I’m fine,” I’d told him.
“You’re standing there with a fucking black eye, beautiful. You aren’t fine.” His mouth had gone tight. “Did the fucker who took Rory do this to you?”
“No! No,” I said quickly. I wasn’t thinking about the repercussions when I blurted, “It wasn’t her. It was Adrian.”
He went still.
Ultra still.
And when he spoke, he did it in a rumbly, intense, scary voice that sent shivers down my spine.
“Adrian Lombardo did this to you?”
I didn’t think it was good that he knew my asshole ex-boyfriend’s full legal name. But I also didn’t think it was a good moment to discuss that small detail.
“I’m okay, really. It looks worse than it is.”
Cade’s eyes were aflame. “I’m going to fucking kill him.”
“Um…” I’d swallowed nervously as my eyes flitted past his enraged face to the bevy of law enforcement officials around us. “Cade, honey, maybe we should talk about this at another time.”
Ideally, when there were no potential witnesses to his murder confessions.
“Later,” he’d vowed tightly. His jaw had been set like stone. I knew he meant business.
Now, itwaslater. Four hours later, to be exact. He still looked like he meant business. His unhappy eyes scanned my battered face, lingering on the bruise.
“Wish you’d let me call over a doctor to look at that,” he muttered, not for the first time. “We’re in a damn hospital. There are a hundred of them around here who’d be happy to help.”
“I don’t need a doctor. It’s just a bruise. It’ll heal.”
“You should put ice on it.”
“I already did,” I said. “By the way, I owe you a bag of frozen peas.”
His lips twitched. “I’m sure you’re good for it.”
We stared at each other for a while. There was a lot to discuss. So much, in fact, I didn’t really know where to begin. Between our fight last night, the evidence box, the car repairs, the Adrian incident, and the Rory rescue…
I decided to tackle the most pressing issue first.