Throwing the driver’s side door open without bothering to turn off the engine, I bolt from the car and race up the small path that leads to Mia’s little house in this idyllic neighborhood that I chose especially for her. I called her back after I finished speaking with Max, but it went straight to voicemail. I’ve spent the past four hours thinking of every possible worst-case scenario while praying that her phone just died.
The front door is locked, but that’s not about to stop me. Using my shoulder as a battering ram, I splinter the wood around the frame and stumble into the entryway. The scent of jasmine and lemon fills the air.
“Mia?” My heart pounds so hard in my chest I’m certain it will explode if I don’t know that she’s okay in the next ten seconds. I head for the kitchen, crossing the small hallway in two strides, and I see her piece-of-shit husband first. Lying face up, his body sprawled at an unnatural angle in a pool of congealed blood.
My eyes dart around the kitchen, heart hammering and blood thundering in my ears until I see her, curled up in a ball a few feet away from him, her attention fixed on his dead body.
I say her name again, but she doesn’t respond. Stepping over him, I crouch down in front of her. She stares right through me and offers no resistance while I check her to make sure she’s okay, running my hands down her arms and pulling them away from her body to check for damage. There’s a small cut above her eye and red marks on her neck, and she’s covered in blood, but it doesn’t look like any of it is hers.
Her T-shirt is torn, her shorts are in the corner. Every sinew in my body threatens to detonate with pent-up rage. This is my fault. I should have killed that twisted fuck when I had the chance.
I never should have let her leave.
“Mia,” I say calmly, swallowing down all the rage that’s bubbling to get out of me. I snap my fingers in front of her face and she blinks, so I cup her jaw softly, tilting her head. Her hazel eyes fix on mine. “I’m here, sunshine.”
“Lorenzo?” she croaks, tears welling in her eyes. They’re full of confusion and terror and panic, and my heart is fucking breaking in two. How the fuck could I let this happen to her? I should have done better. I should’ve looked after her and protected what’s mine.
Mine.
I pull her into my arms, wrapping them around her as I press my lips against her hair. “I’m here, sunshine. I got you.”
Heaving sobs wrack her body and I hold her until they subside enough that I can speak to her. Brushing her thick hair back from her face, I kiss her forehead and inhale her sweet scent. “Let’s get you cleaned up and get you out of here. Okay?”
She nods meekly. I’ve seen this before. She’s numb from the shock of what she did, and from the realization of what might have happened if she hadn’t killed him first. I scoop her into my arms and stand, noting the fresh bruises on the tops of her thighs. Bile burns in my gullet, but I swallow it down and carry her from the kitchen, closing the door behind us so the stench of her ex-husband’s corpse doesn’t follow.
I set her on her feet in the bathroom and she wobbles unsteadily. Grabbing her waist to steady her, I try not to think about all the other times I’ve had my hands on her. And how that disgusting fuck had his hands on her again—which I allowed to happen.
Keeping one hand on her waist, I reach behind her and turn on the shower. “You need help getting undressed?”
After shaking her head, she peels the torn T-shirt from her body and stands before me in only her panties. I glance away while she tugs them down her legs and kicks them off her feet. Once she’s undressed, I look into her hazel eyes, more brown today than green. “You want me to wait outside for you?”
She shakes her head again, but then she just stands there, like she’s forgotten what to do next. “You’re going to get into the shower and wash the blood off,” I say, gently coaxing her.
“Yeah,” she says absent-mindedly, her voice little more than a whisper. She steps gingerly into the walk-in shower and stands beneath the hot running water. I wait for her to wash herself clean of that fucker’s blood, but she remains still, her only movement the gentle shuddering of her shoulders as she starts to cry.
Fuck!
I kick off my sneakers and step into the shower behind her, turning her around and pulling her into my arms. She buries her face against my T-shirt, sobbing softly as the water runs over us both. I have no idea how long I stand with her, holding her while she lets everything out, but I do know that I will hold her for the rest of my life if that’s what she needs.
