Chapter 2

My throat hurts.

And my jaw.

And my cheek.

And my ribs.

And my…

Well, there's not much of me that doesn't hurt right now.

Ass and hip from falling.

My torso and ribs and neck and face from?—

I shudder then gasp when the pain radiates through me—and through all of those still-forming bruises—as the memory of Phillip's rage-filled face bursts back into the forefront of my consciousness?—

I'd seen him angry before.

I'd seen him angry many times over the years…that number growing increasingly more frequent over the last months.

As our wedding neared.

I'd thought it was the stress of the planning, the money, the seating charts and handmade favors and his mom wanting to make every decision.

But I hadn't seen anger like that.

Never like that.

Never paired with hands that hurt and a foot that kicked and words that sliced deeper than ever before?—

"Easy," Kingston says, his arm tightening around mine, pressing it into his hard stomach as he slows at a signal and the wind whipping around us eases. I realize that I'm trembling. That I'm doing it so hard that likely the only reason I'm still on the seat of his motorcycle is because his big body is keeping me there.

"I-I-I'm o-o-okay," I say through teeth chattering so hard that I nearly bite off my tongue.

He doesn't call me on the obvious lie, just slowly starts forward again. "We're almost there."

I don't ask where there is.

I don't care, not when the hurts are growing and the helmet Kingston gently settled on my head is pressing in on my temples and making them ache. Not with the wind tangling the hair beneath it, ruining the perfect fall of curls for which I sat still for hours so the stylist could get them just right. Not with my makeup ruined and my dress stained and torn.

From the tears and the puddle and Phillip?—

Enough.

I shudder again, but Kingston doesn't say anything this time, likely because I wouldn't be able to hear him over the road noise—the growling sound of the bike's engine, the wind whipping by us, the other cars, the tires finding purchase on the asphalt beneath us.

Then the cacophony is quieting again.

King turns a corner and drives along a long two-lane road that crawls up the side of a canyon—back and forth, back and forth—until we reach a round-a-bout at the precipice and take a right.

Thick redwoods and oak trees, large lots set back from the street.

Porches and circular driveways.

One that King pulls into, driving by the front of the house and around the corner toward a small garage that's separate from the main one.

A pause.

Then the door rumbles open.

And we're inside the small, enclosed space.

My heart hiccups, but I don't have time to panic because Kingston is shutting off the bike's engine, slowly climbing off, arm steadying me before he removes my helmet.

I wince even though he's careful, my hair catching in the buckle.

"Sorry," he murmurs as he extracts the helmet from my hair, his touch beyond gentle as he untangles a curl from the strap.

Despite all that gentle, it takes every bit of the strength I have left to hold back my grimace as that light touch sets my scalp on fire.

"Sorry," he says again, but then the helmet's free and he's setting it to the side before reaching for me again.

I flinch.

I can't help it.

"Your feet are bleeding, princess," he murmurs. "I can't let you walk inside like that."

I glance down, almost surprised to find that he's right, that I've lost the blue sparkly pumps somewhere—the something blue of my wedding outfit. My feet are scraped and cut and blood is dripping on the floor.

Another shudder that sends a bolt of pain through me.

"I'm going to carry you inside," King says as though talking to a wounded animal.

And I suppose I feel like I am one right now.

I'd fought for something, fought hard and to the brutal end…

Only to find out I'd never had it in the first place.

That it wasn't what I'd thought it was.

That I was right back to that same shit—an unwanted annoyance who's unlovable and?—

"Okay?"

I blink, realize that King's still talking.

And pairing it with action.

I hold steady this time as he carefully reaches forward, wraps his arms around me, and lifts me effortlessly, as though I'm no heavier than a box of tissues. And then I'm up in his arms, cradled against his chest as he walks out of the garage. A pause and the door rumbles down behind us before he walks toward the other garage, punching in a code at a different door, sending it rolling up, moving inside as soon as it's cleared his six-foot-plus frame.

Dim light penetrates the windows on the far side of the space, a bulb in the opener overhead helps guide our way to the door leading into the house.

Ten long strides across.

One. Two steps up.

Another pause and press of the button to close the garage door behind us.

And yes, I know I'm fixating on the little details, the mundane shit, the step by step by step so I don't freak out?—

Phillip.

The sound of his fist meeting my flesh.

I'd heard it before I felt it.

I shudder again, but I fight it, try to stop it in its tracks, and that's likely why it's so much worse, why the pain is a blazing wave that threatens to incinerate me.

I distantly feel that we're moving again, that lights are flicking on and we're climbing up a flight of stairs.

I should be more aware. Should climb them myself. Should tuck this away and move on.

But…I hurt.

Not just my body. But my mind and heart and soul.

They hurt.

"Breathe, princess," King murmurs, the bed depressing as he climbs on with me in his arms, holding me against his chest, one hand gently rubbing my back in slow, even circles. "Just breathe."

Which is when I realize I'm crying.

Deep shuddering sobs that make my ribs cry out in protest.

Messy tears that stream down my face, drip off my jaw.

But King doesn't hurry me, just keeps stroking my back, holding me close until the tears stop, until exhaustion saps my mind. I want to give in to the fatigue, want to slide into sleep and pretend this didn't happen.

But…

"I should go," I whisper.

His big body turns into a statue beneath me, arms tightening around me, though not enough to hurt. "What the fuck?"

I push against his chest. "I should go."

"You're not going anywhere," he mutters. "You're fucking bleeding and shivering and covered in bruises. You're not going anywhere."

"I'm fine," I snap, shoving at his chest.

Unfortunately, as is often the case with one Kingston Bang, my annoyance with this big, stubborn man has me forgetting myself.

I forget that my ribs hate life right now as I push against him hard.

He doesn't move.

Not one goddamned inch.

But I do as pain radiates up my arms, my side and?—

"What the fuck?" he mutters, sitting up from the headboard in a rush, capturing me carefully, rolling me off him—just as carefully. And then he's sliding a hand behind me, unzipping my dress in a motion that's too fucking smooth and speaks of too many women, all of whom I shouldn't be jealous of, considering I'd been planning on getting married to another man this evening (but women who I'm jealous of for some dumbass reason anyway).

King peels open my dress, draws it down my arms.

Off my chest.

I gasp, but he's not looking at my breasts barely contained in a lace bra.

He's stopped with the taffeta and chiffon with embroidered flowers bunched around my waist.

And then his eyes jerk back to mine, deep blue pools blazing with fire.

"I'm going to fucking kill him."