I stiffen when her hand grazes over my knuckles, and she pauses.
“What happened?” she asks, dropping the spoon into the pot and pulling the injured hand off her stomach so she can inspect it.
Grace tries to turn in my arms, but I tighten my hold on her, making a sound of protest into the crook of her neck.
“Sebastian,” she whispers, stroking her fingers over my hand, avoiding the few grazes. “Are you okay?”
“I’m better now,” I say, and I’m surprised at how true the statement is.
This time when she tries to turn, I don’t stop her. I rest my other hand against her lower back, needing to touch her.
Her gaze roams over my face, then she reaches up and palms my cheek. And fuck if I don’t lean into it.
“You look tired,” she says, stroking her thumb under my eye.
I make a sound of agreement, the exhaustion hitting me full force now that I’m here.
Grace leads me towards the lounge, pulling me by my wrist, and I go with her willingly.
“Sit.” Her voice is soft and light, but I still hear the command for what it is.
When I’ve lowered myself onto the couch, Grace goes back to the kitchen.
My eyes feel heavy, and I struggle to keep them open, but then she’s back in front of me—a bowl of soup with toast in one hand and a glass of water in the other.
“Here,” she says, holding out the water.
I take the glass from her and down half the contents in one go. She takes the glass back, placing it on the coffee table before giving me the bowl of soup. The last thing I want to do right now is eat, but she looks at me so expectantly I can’t deny her.
Picking up the first piece of toast, I dip it in the soup, swirling it around the bowl before taking a large bite.The food actually goes down well, and I hadn’t even known I needed it.
Grace disappears again, and by the time she returns, I’ve nearly polished off the bowl. She sits down beside me on the couch and places the now-empty bowl next to the glass before grabbing my hand and pulling it into her lap. With her other hand, she presses a towel-wrapped ice pack against my swollen knuckles.
We sit like that for a while, palm to palm—her thumb running along the side of my hand.
“Are you going to tell me what happened?” she finally asks.
“It was nothing,” I say. Partly because just the thought of all the shit that happened today is making my head throb. But also, I don’t want to subject her to knowing anything about a bastard likeDeveigne, especially not after what she revealed to me the other night.
She sighs and drops her eyes, but she doesn’t press the issue.
“Come here,” I say, grabbing the ice pack from her hand and putting it on the couch before tugging her towards me.
She crawls into my lap and wraps her arms around my waist, resting her head on my chest.
Her heart beats a steady rhythm against my chest. It’s crazy how right this feels, how good. But Easton’s words hang over us like a dark cloud.
“How did you get away from him?” I feel her heart speed up at my question, thumping against my chest with every beat.
“Someone helped me,” she says after a moment. “I wasn’t… I wasn’t going to survive there. He would never have let me go.”
My chest feels like it’s in a vice. “Who helped you?”
“One of his guards.”
He had guards?
I feel her soft body in my arms, her small frame. She may be one of the strongest people I know, but she didn’t stand a fucking chance. I’m grateful for whoever helped her and got her out of that sick fuck’s clasp, but I also want to fucking kill him. How many times did they stand by while she was being hurt?