Page 31 of Shattered Hearts
“Move.” I push into the place, forcing her back a few steps to make way for me.
“I’m not ready yet. Just wait downstairs.” When her eyes connect with my face, she gasps. “Finn?”
I ignore her, pacing past her to scan the layout of her apartment for security flaws. A short hallway leads from her front door into a modest living room furnished with thrift store finds. A faded couch and armchair, dinged-up coffee table, awarped shelving unit holding both a television and numerous books. To my immediate left is the bathroom. Next to the bathroom, an archway leads to her kitchen.
Riley follows. “What the hell happened to you?”
Turning right, I find another doorway on the wall beside me. I glimpse a writing desk through the open door.
Directly ahead of me in the far corner of the living room is the entryway to Riley’s bedroom. The sight of her bed makes me remember the last bed I was in, and how thoughts of her turned my cock to steel?—
“Hey.” She grips my forearm. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Still drunk on adrenaline, I can barely slow my mind enough to focus on her face. Fear glimmers in her eyes. And when a movement over her shoulder snaps my head up, I understand why.
A mirror hangs on the wall between her bathroom door and the kitchen archway. My own reflection caught my eye.
I could pass for a serial killer. My butterfly knife, smudged with blood, still protrudes from my clenched hand. My lip is split. There are cuts and a fist-sized bruise on my left cheek.
A dull drumbeat pulses in the back of my skull. When my last wife saw me like this, she wanted a divorce. Who was I to think anyone—any sane, normal, wonderful person—could really love someone like me?
I swallow hard and meet Riley’s gaze. The terror residing there reminds me that I’m a horrifying monster. Always have been, and always will be.
Bitter, aimless rage flares in the pit of my chest. I don’t know why.
This is who I am all the time. So why am I so ashamed standing here in front of Riley Brennan? Doesn’t make any fucking sense.
“Finn.” She shakes my forearm a little.
“A few streets over, some guys attacked me.”
“You mean, like amugging?On a Sunday morning?”
“No. Premeditated.” I wince. “I need to use your bathroom.”
I stride past her. If I can just clean myself up a little, maybe I’ll calm down enough to?—
“You can’t use my bathroom.” Riley’s in front of me again, her face bright pink.
She shoves her hands to my chest to stop me. At her touch, my heart flings itself toward her fingertips. But her horrified expression chills my blood to ice.
My stomach sinks. She’s so disgusted with me she doesn’t even want me to use her sink. “Okay. Then let’s?—”
“What I mean is, you’re hurt.” Riley drops her hands, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “Sit down. I’ll clean you up.” Without another word, she disappears into her bathroom.
In the meantime, I don’t move an inch. With my chest so tight and my brain so foggy, I can’t remember which way is up. Is Riley Brennan…concerned about me?
The fact that my brain has stalled on this question, like an overheating car by the side of the road, is a headache in more ways than one.
I’m being targeted by an unknown enemy. They could be mere seconds from breaking down her door and killing us both, and I’m standing here in a daze, hyperaware of the mattress in Riley’s bedroom and this strange, sick desire I have to sink my dick inside her. Being alone together in her space with the air fragrant with her lavender scent drives me wild.
When she emerges from the bathroom carrying an old Scooby-Doo lunchbox, I try to retake control of the situation.
“There’s no time for this. The fuckers who attacked me got away.” Except for one. “We need to get to the estate.”
Riley ignores me.
She nods at the armchair behind me that’s positioned adjacent to her couch. “Sit.”