35. JAKE

The way they are treating her is infuriating. And how she keeps letting her relatives get away with it, when I know she is more than capable of shutting them up, is killing me. A blunt weight burrows against my chest. It's as if she's not surprised by their commentary—and worse—believes some of it.

I don't understand.

Why the fuck are these people acting like Patel is milk gone bad?

What's reining my temper in is the look on her face. She's stressed, exhausted, and seems sad. I'm used to the first two, but the last one makes me feel odd. Like I have to fix it right away.

The problem is that I don't know how. Verbally slapping back shit opinions doesn't seem like an option. Neither is dragging her out of here. Can she tell I'm tempted?

When she touched my waist, I wasn't prepared. Not for her hand along my back, or how snug and warm she fit against me. My tongue tied into knots. Without the usual fire of her combative energy, she looked small to me. And that made it worse. This craving leapt forward. I want to protect her harder—to wrap my arms fully around her—and be the barrier against every idiot in this room who thinks it's okay to speak to her this way. And also—maybe—whisper reminders in her ear. To say I've seen her wave scissors in my face with a mean snarl at the slightest provocation.

There's also another thing.

I've a feeling I'm going to have trouble meeting my eyes in the mirror tonight. Fuck me, but I'm going to wonder if I'm another bully in her life like these people are. If I give her the same kind of trouble and have ever hit her with cheap shots that are categorically fucking untrue. If I was so distracted every time she cackled at me over the clients she won, that I didn't notice Patel was small, human, and needed caring.

Right now, I can't digest any of that. All I can do is hold her hand. As she pulls me toward her Bebe, she's giving me another run-down, as if this next conversation is more important than the rest.