Chapter 3

There are fucking bootprints on her ribs.

Boot. Prints.

Fucking plural.

The abrasion on her cheek is infuriating. The bruise on her jaw rage-spiraling.

The goddamned imprint of a man's hand on her throat had my control splintering to mere threads when I first saw her on the side of the road.

But…this?

I carefully climb off the bed, back away from her. Putting some distance between us because fury is coursing through my veins, splintering through my nerves. I whirl around and slam my fist into the wall, denting the Sheetrock and sending up a little puff of dust.

Pain bursts up my arm, but it's not enough to cool my anger.

Not enough to make up for the pain this woman went through.

I rear back, start to allow it to fly forward again, wanting the hurt, wanting?—

"No," she says, snagging my wrist, halting me. "Don't," she whispers.

I could break her hold in a second.

But…I don't.

Not when there are bruises on her body and tear tracks on her cheeks and she's holding her dress up around her middle.

She's fucking beautiful.

And broken.

I exhale quietly, temper my anger, then gently order, "Back in bed."

She holds my gaze, eyes firm. "No more punching things," she whispers. A breath. "You need your hands to play hockey."

This is not a lie.

So, I nod—letting her know I hear her—before I turn her back toward my bed, guide her to sit down on the side of it. "Off those feet," I order. "I'll get you some dry clothes to change into."

Her chin juts down. "Thanks."

But she sounds like she's cutting glass, and though it probably shouldn't—considering the circumstances—it makes me smile.

This is the Rory I know.

The one who calls me on my shit and is prickly when I'm nearby and…frankly, it's probably the only thing that can settle me at this moment.

Rory's nice…to everyone but me.

Rory loves animals. Rory loves her friends. Rory sees right through the smiling, joking, casual demeanor I put up between me and the rest of the world.

Which means it's likely she sees the man I am deep inside.

(A scary proposition).

But also…no wonder she's prickly.

Because that shit is scary.

It's much easier to be King Bang—the bachelor hockey player who goes through women like pairs of socks, to be the King of Banging.

Once upon a time, I tried to be something different.

Something more.

And that shit…

Well, it made me realize that I'll only ever be King Bang, so I might as well wear the mantle, carry the scepter, and do it with aplomb.

Something that rubs this woman the wrong way.

Probably because she's as real as they come, and I always know where I stand with her. No patience for false masks and bullshits.

So…no patience for me.

Which is fine.

I have no interest in a woman like her.

A fucking lie—even though I cling to it like it's gospel.

Mostly because I can't have interest in a woman like her—not just a woman who's—who was—in a relationship…

But a woman a man keeps forever.

Inhaling, I move to my closet, yank a tee and pair of sweats out of the drawers, and bring them back to her. "Careful now," I murmur, helping her shift her dress the rest of the way off, taking it from her and leaving the clothes beside her. "You need help getting those on?"

Please say no.

Because this woman may not like me, but…she's fucking beautiful, and the lingerie she's got on should be a fucking sin.

"No," she snaps. "I'm not a fucking invalid."

"No, Mrs. Pricklestein," I mutter. "You're not an invalid. You're just bruised to hell and back."

"What did you call me?" she snaps.

Snaps.

Something else she only does with me.

She puts herself out there to protect others, has done it over and over again, for both human and not.

Looking out for her best friend, Chrissy, when things got dicey with my teammate, Rome, and the relationship they were building.

Watching out for animals of all shapes and sizes—most recently in the form of a litter of corgi puppies and other dogs and cats she helped rescue from a hoarder house. I've watched her carry a spider outside and volunteer for hours at Chrissy's rescue, helping with the other woman's spay and release program. Hell, I've heard Chrissy go on about all the time Rory puts in with her own pet adoption group.

I've watched Rory when I was supposed to be focusing on hockey as she helped a crying and lost kiddo at the rink.

I've seen her lead a group of giggling and tipsy ladies from a bachelorette party at the winery when the normal—and extremely pregnant—tour guide was feeling light-headed and I was…

Picking up wine.

And not drawn to Oak Ridge Vineyards because I know this woman has an office there.

More lies.

And—

"Kingston!"

More snapping, but luckily, this time, it snaps me out of my own head. "What?" I mutter.

"What the hell did you just call me?"

"Mrs. Pricklestein," I tell her, snagging the T-shirt and pulling it over her head because I can't stand there, seeing her in that white lace stretched taut over her breasts, the hints of hard, pink nipples beneath, I can't stand there while catching a glimpse of a plump pussy between her bare thighs and not do something stupid. "Though, I guess it should be Miss Pricklestein since you're not married?—"

I stop, clamp my teeth together so quickly that pain radiates along my jaw.

Stupid.

Fucking stupid.

She's sitting here bruised and battered, her dress a crumpled mess next to her, and I'm reminding her that her wedding hadn't happened.

Because her fiancé beat the shit out of her.

"Prickle Princess," I blurt as a wave of sadness crosses her face. Wanting her mad, wanting her to feel anything other than hurt, emotionally or physically, and if that takes her being pissed at me, then I'll gladly make her pissed at me.

Not that it takes much.

Because she clamps down onto the bait.

"What. The. Hell. Did?—"

I touch her cheek—the unbruised one. "Prickle Princess," I say again. "Because you're a goddamned cactus, always throwing barbs my way." I lift my hand away from her skin, lest I continue to touch her. "Now sit the fuck down, watch some TV"—I shove the remote at her—"so I can call the police."

"What?" All of the pissiness leaves her face, panic taking its place. "You can't— I?—"

"Breathe," I order. "I can call the police, and I'm going to," I tell her softly. "But I'm going to call Chrissy first," I add as I see her alarm peak.

That settles her, eyes sliding closed, body relaxing marginally, enough for me to coax her back onto my pillows, those curls splaying on the navy case, making my dick twitch again.

Disgusting pig.

King Bang.

You're not a good man.

Right. I'm not.

I exhale long and slow and silent?—

Then I tug the blanket up from the foot of the bed, carefully covering her.

And then I'm moving out of the room, the tightness between my shoulders easing as I hear the TV turn on, the sound of the streaming program load up. A glance back tells me that she's not really watching it.

But that's fine.

She's not panicking.

She's not crying.

She's safe and staring off into space, and…

Well, I'm going to find a way to fix this.

And I have the feeling it's going to involve murder.