She waited, breath baited painfully, lungs burning, stomach tossing and churning, acid creeping up her throat. Her palms were drenched with sweat. She finally stood, after a few moments of silence, John’s eyes cutting her to shreds. She intended to show him the door.
Of course, he had other ideas. He stood as well and closed the distance between them in a few long strides. He reached out, wrapped his hand like a vice around her wrist. Katelyn tried to pull away, heart hammering in her chest, the danger closing in on her, but he held her fast.
“No. You’re going to listen to what I have to say now,” he hissed. Spittle flew from his mouth and hit her on the face, but she forced herself not to wince. She had to stay calm. John was a pariah. He fed off others fear. She wouldn’t show him that her amour had any cracks. “You are a cunt. A low class, fucking whore who used me for a Green Card. You think you can threaten me with a restraining order? I own you, you little bitch. Your life is mine. It was mine from the minute you agreed to be my wife. For better or worse, to death do us part. You’re not dead. You’re far from it. You think you can make me a laughing stock? That you can come between me and my peers, people who respected me before I met you? You’re coming back to Chicago with me. You will say you made a mistake. A momentary lapse of judgment. You will come back and you will be my wife again.”
Katelyn’s mouth opened in shock. “Are you fucking insane?” she whispered, unable to force her voice to be loud or strong. “I’m not going anywhere with you. Maybe you should tell everyone the real story. Then they’d understand and you wouldn’t look like you’d been jilted.”
“Bitch!” Katelyn tried to pull away. She knew what was coming. John’s grip was much too firm, his strength always so much greater than hers. He yelled other obscenities, but she tuned them out. She went somewhere in her head, trying to protect herself. She could already feel herself shutting down.
She barely registered the way his cold hand wrapped around her neck, cutting off her air supply or the way he propelled her easily across the room and slammed her into the wall that adjoined the other condo.
The condo of the man whose name I don’t know. His face flashed across her closed eyes, danced along with the black spots and bursting colors from not being able to draw a breath.
John’s hold loosened. Katelyn gasped for air, her lungs screaming. She knew it was only a temporary reprieve to keep her alive. It would do him no good if he killed her. John’s hand left her throat. He gripped her by the shoulders, turned her around and slammed her into the wall again, harder this time. Her face hit the drywall hard. She managed to turn at the last second, just enough to save her nose from shattering.
Her hair was tugged mercilessly out of the pony tail she’d placed it in. John used her hair as leverage. She cried out, grasping piteously at his hands, trying to keep him from tearing her hair out. He slammed her again into the wall.
He was yelling, yelling things that weren’t even comprehendible at her. He was in a rage, a worse rage that she had ever seen him in.
He could actually kill me.
It was her last thought before he turned her savagely, gripping her hair in his fist. He struck her once in the face, with his closed fist, right along her cheekbone. Pain bloomed along the whole left side of her face. She wailed. She tried to claw at him, tried to rip out his eyes, but she couldn’t reach. He held her just far enough away.
He drew back his fist again and she closed her eyes, praying the blow would knock her unconscious before he actually did kill her in his rage.
The blow never landed. At that moment there was the splintering crash of the front door banging open. Footsteps sounded in the hall, getting closer, closer, and then he was there.
Him, her neighbor, the man whose name she did not know.
Chapter 8
His Angel
Kian
He thought he’d known rage before. He was wrong. Dead wrong. Rage didn’t even begin to describe what he felt when he burst into his neighbor’s house, the woman who looked and smelt like an angel, and saw what was happening to her.
Years of training kicked in. Instinct took over. He strode forward in a black rage, his vision honed in on the scumbag who’d just dealt a blow to his angel.
The minute his hand closed around the guy’s shirt, Kian was the definition of apeshit. He hadn’t lost it in a while. In a very long while, and damn… it felt good to take out his righteous anger on the piece of shit in front of him.
He tugged the offender away, reached back and slammed his fist into the guy’s face to subdue him. He hit again, breaking the guy’s nose, smattering blood over the walls and floor. And what do you know, Mr. Tough turned into a pile of whining, crying, much.
Blood actually satisfied a little of the rage burning inside Kian. He wasn’t one of those guys that lusted for more once he drew it.
“Not so tough when you’re the one on the receiving end, are you?” Kian growled. He drew back his fist and the guy, whining and blubbering, covered his face. He was actually fucking crying. Kian was absolutely disgusted. “Get out. Get the fuck out and don’t ever think about coming back here, you understand? Oh, and apologize to the lady.”
The man just kept sobbing away, muttering something about his nose, his broken nose. It was pretty clear he had no intention of apologizing.
Kian had little choice but to haul the guy up by his bloodstained shirt. He was dressed like he was going to a damn wedding. Kian knew his type. The type who paraded around in suits and fancy cars, who lived for the thrill of making money and spending it, who lived to impress all those around them. They lived a big life and talked big, but on the inside they were small and rotten, shriveled up and mean. Essentially the pile of shit in front of him was nothing more than an adult version of the schoolyard bully.
“I said, apologize!” He thrust the guy out in front of him easily, in front of his angel, who sat with her back braced against the walls, huge blue eyes wide with terror. A huge welt was already forming on her forehead and her cheekbone under her left eye was swollen, the bruise already darkening to an angry purple black.
The guy blubbered something that passed for sorry. Kian didn’t trust him to get out on his own so he gave him a helping hand. He half dragged, half carried the pathetic excuse out the front door. He didn’t care if he was about to make a scene. So be it.
“Which one is yours?” he growled. He shook the guy when he didn’t answer. His eyes scanned the lot, landing on the black sports car parked near the entrance. The back tire was on the sidewalk. “Of course. That one.” He started off in the direction of the car, picking up steam. The guy was pulled along, begging and pleading, his pathetic sounding voice echoing through the parking lot. “Shut up.” Kian jerked him roughly.
Thankfully the car wasn’t far. He reached it, flung open the driver door and shoved his burden into the seat.
“I meant what I said. Don’t think about coming back. You’re a piece of shit. Only a weak man hits a woman, a pathetic man.”
“But… but…”
“There is no excuse in the world that will excuse you for what you just put her through. If I’m going to hazard a guess, it isn’t the first time. Don’t think about pressing charges for your fucking nose either or I’ll find you and break it again. I don’t know where you live, but she does. Remember that I’m in the picture now, motherfucker. You mess with her, you get me. Understand?”
“Yes,” the guy wailed. The blood streaming from his nose was finally beginning to congeal. It wasn’t at all satisfying so Kian reached in and gripped it hard. He didn’t have to twist to elicit a scream of pain. The blood started flowing again after that, dripping all over the black leather interior.
Better. Much better.
“You stay away from her, you hear me? You got off easy today, but I’m not going to go easy next time I catch you. You make any excuse to see her, hurt her, talk to her, anything to do with that woman in there and you’re going to be a bloody pulp when I f
ind out. Got it?”
“Yah, yah, I got it.” The voice was so high pitched that Kian actually laughed. It was a sick sounding chuckle, mirthless and a little terrifying, even to himself. He never used to enjoy doing physical harm this much. It frightened him how good it felt, how much of a release it was.
Although this was different. This wasn’t some drug dealer fighting back. It wasn’t someone being belligerent or trying to escape arrest. This guy was a woman beater. He’d dared to lay a hand on someone delicate, fragile, weaker than himself.
The enjoyment lay in teaching the weasel a lesson he wouldn’t soon forget, in freeing his neighbor from this guy’s wretched presence. He’d never seen him around before. Never heard a fight like he’d heard through the thin wall that adjoined their condo together. Either he hadn’t been home when it happened or the guy showed up out of nowhere, likely uninvited.
He’d bet on the latter. Years of training and one quick glance at the guy’s left hand gave him one guess as to who the scumbag was. Some kind of ex. Ex-boyfriend, ex-fiancé, ex-husband. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to be in the picture any longer.
“Put your car in drive and get out of here. Out of this city. Out of this State. Get yourself far away before I decide to get on my bike and track you down just to make sure you understood.
The guy nodded frantically. He managed to push start the car and put it in gear. It was an automatic. Of course it was an automatic. Everything about the loser in front of him screamed fake. He couldn’t even drive a real sports car.
Kian backed up and slammed the door shut. He punched the metal hard, for good measure, but also because it felt so damn good to smash his fist into something that fought back just a little.
The guy stomped the gas pedal and roared off down the street. He nearly lost control of the car and had to swerve to avoid a car parked along the edge of the sidewalk.
Kian shook his head slowly. He hoped the damn guy didn’t kill anyone getting to wherever he was going. He had a feeling that wasn’t Miami. The guy was too pale to have been from around here. He looked like he never saw the sun.
He started the slow walk back to his neighbor’s condo. God, I don’t even know what her name is.
He ducked back inside and shut the door, well aware that people around the complex were probably staring, probably taking note that he went inside. He hoped no one called the cops. He’d have a hell of a lot of explaining to do.
Chapter 9
A Strong Survivor
Kian
Inside her domain once more, the urge to call out and announce his presence was so great he nearly did it. He wanted to start out by calling her name though and he didn’t know what that was, so he just coughed loudly, as though slamming the front door wasn’t enough to announce that he was back.
The condo was small and when he stepped back into the living room, he found her right away. She’d moved away from her spot by the wall, but she was still curled up on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest, her eyes staring forward, haunted, vacant.
Oh hell no. He’d seen that look before and he wasn’t going to let her go there. Not this woman. She was strong. She was a survivor.
Kian bent next to her. He reached out slowly, but didn’t touch her. He wanted to give her time to get used to his hand being there, like she was a scared dog that would either bolt or lash out at his touch.
“Hey. It’s alright now. I got rid of that trash. He’s not going to bother you anymore. Believe me, I scared the life out of him.”
His soft words brought her back. She blinked slowly and her eyes changed. She seemed to register that he was there and she actually smiled softly, though her lips trembled. Her huge blue eyes filled up with tears. They spilled over and streamed down her cheeks in profuse trails. He let her cry, let her get it all out. She didn’t sob or make a sound. Her tears were totally silent, though they came down like a waterfall.
“I think you should probably get some ice on that cheek. It’s swelling up pretty bad.” The sight of that bruise infuriated him. It made him want to make good on his word to get on his bike, track that shitpile down and beat him all over again.
“I don’t have any.” Her voice was soft, feminine, as angelic as he remembered.
“I have a few ice packs and some ice cubes at my place. Want me to get them?” He was surprised when she slowly shook her head.
“I have to feed my cat,” she whispered, rather irrationally, he thought. “She’s probably hiding. Terrified. She’s probably so hungry…”
He knew from experience that sometimes it was easier just to give in. If this was important to her, it would help if it was done. “I’ll do it. Tell me where it is.”
“There’s tuna in the pantry. Open it. Put a quarter onto a plate. Her medicine bottle is in the cupboard over the fridge. There’s a blue measuring vial. Fill it to the two mark and mix it into the food. She’ll come out soon. I hope. She’s probably so scared…” she trailed off, voice turning into a whisper.
“It’s alright,” Kian said gruffly. He’d had more than his fair share of experience dealing with trauma victims. Over the years he’d seen it all. Rape cases. Domestic abuse. Homicides. People trusted him. They really had no reason to, but for some reason, they always talked to him when they couldn’t talk to anyone else. “I’ll do it.”
He went off towards the kitchen. He flicked on the light, noting that it was just like his own. He found everything easily. What do you know, the click of the can opener produced an ancient blue eyed beast. The Siamese cat blinked up at him, staring him down hard, assessing him.
“I’m a friend,” he said gently. “See, a peace offering.” He produced the dish with the good and medicine mixed in.
The cat strode forward confidently and actually rubbed his leg. It meowed softly, a horrible noise that didn’t sound like a meow at all. He bent, set the food down and gently caressed the cat’s back. It was so ancient he could feel the backbone. It sagged a little at the end and the animal’s hip bones were visible. The cat was long and lanky and he was willing to bet it had looked like that almost its entire life. Age only heightened the signs. The coat was no longer shiny either. It was almost shaggy, oily down the back.
He made sure the cat was eating before he went back to the living room. The woman, the nameless woman, pushed herself to standing. She stared at him with those eyes of hers, eyes that were old before her time.
“Thank you,” she whispered and he wasn’t sure if she was thanking him for getting rid of the garbage or for feeding her cat. Probably both.
He raised a hand to his hair and brushed the long strands away from his face. “No problem.” He actually felt the sting of unfamiliar heat on his cheeks. He felt… undone the way she was looking at him. It was strange and cutting, sharp and intense. She blinked then, freeing him from her spell and let out a relieved breath.
The floor was spattered with blood. It was a little unnerving to say the least. “You got a mop? I can clean that up.”
“I’ll do it.”
He couldn’t say what made him do it. He hadn’t touched a person, at least not in that way, with any kind of tenderness, in four years. He was unable to stop himself from reaching out and gently caressing her forehead. He felt the welt forming there and moved his hand lower, skimming over the bruise.
His heart hammered violently. His entire body came alive and so painfully aware. He skimmed that delicate skin, so very gently, lightly, almost not touching her at all. She was fire. A damn pillar of fire standing there, burning him, consuming him. His hand didn’t feel like his hand at all, his arm burned, his body sizzled with electricity. He forced himself to be gentle when he pulled his hand away.
Her beautiful blue eyes never left his face. She didn’t tremble or jerk away when he touched her. The most incredible emotion shimmered in those blue depths. Trust. She trusted him. She had no reason to. He looked like a badass. She’d seen him do physical damage to another person. She knew what he was
capable of, and yet, she sensed he wouldn’t hurt her.
That trust, her innocent, naïve, misplaced trust, did something to his heart. He was damn hard inside. Like a rock. Other than the pain in his head that he never could block out, the nightmares and unguarded moments, the memories that assailed him, he felt nothing at all. No joy, no fear, nothing.
When she looked at him like that, damn it, when he’d touched her, he felt… he felt- alive. Like his heart was truly beating again. He felt his skin and his bones and his blood. He felt that he was a flesh and blood man and not just a shell.
“This is going to be bad,” he choked out as his insides twisted into a hard knot. “I don’t want it to swell up so badly that you can’t see out of that eye. Please, come to my house and let me put ice on it. You can stay there while I come back and clean up your living room floor.”
“I can’t do that,” she whispered. “You’ve done enough. I’ll go to the store and get some ice.”
“Not a chance,” he protested, amazed he could even find words or force a coherent thought at the moment, when his body was doing wild things, things he hadn’t felt in years. It was sheer instinct and years of professional training, he knew, that pulled out the words, that forced his voice. “Just come over. It will be alright. I promise.”
She hedged. Her hand flew to the bruise on her cheek one delicate, manicured finger tracing the outline of the purple swell. She winced. “I… I don’t even know your name.”
He nodded slowly. “Yah. I know. I think now, of all times, we can be on a first name basis. I’m Kian.” Absurdly, he stuck out his hand. She stared at it for a moment before she reached out and gently placed her palm in his. Fire shot up his arm, the flames licking and searing his skin. He managed not to wince or rip his hand away. She dropped her palm back to her side naturally a second later.
Tattooed Hearts_A Secret Baby Second Chance Romance Page 17
