Chapter 7 · Deadbolt from the Inside

The door didn't knock. It opened.

Owen Hale came through it shoulder first, filling the frame before the bathroom steam even cleared.

I had my shirt hauled open to the ribs. Wet cotton balled in my fist, pink turning red. Blood on the porcelain rim, blood under my fingernails, and the steamed mirror behind me showing every ugly detail. One stitch had popped near the bottom of the cut. Two more were pulled so tight the flesh around them had gone wax-white.

"Don't," I said.

He didn't stop.

"You're bleeding on my tile."

"It's water."

"It's red."

I grabbed both sides of my shirt, trying to yank them shut. Useless. The waist button had popped off an hour ago in the hallway when I spun around after his daughter finally let go of my fingers. Now the fabric just hung open, exposing the raw line along my ribs.

His gaze dropped. Not low. Not predatory, either. Right at the ruined seam.

"Who stitched that?"

"A clinic."

"Which clinic."

"One that didn't ask for ID." I forced one button through a frayed hole and gave up. "You've got a house packed with armed men downstairs, Mr. Hale.