Page 23 of Malice

“You’re safe,” I assure her, my voice softening. “He won’t touch you.”

She shakes her head slowly. “Men like that…” her voice barely whispers. “They don’t stop.”

I cross the room to her. My hands still tremble, so I press them on my thighs, out of her sight. “No,” I say honestly because she deserves truth more than comfort now. “Not on their own. That’s why we make sure they can’t.”

She holds my gaze for a long moment, then releases a breath that seems held for years, knees buckling. I catch her before she falls.

I lower her gently onto the examination table, my hand supporting her shoulder blades, checking her wrist for a pulse. Steady. Fast, but steady. The guards have him cuffed now. One of them, Chris, I think the older one with gray streaks in his hair, is on his radio, calling in the new assault charge.

“Are you okay?” he asks over his shoulder, and I nod, though I’m not entirely convinced. My hands have stilled, but a bright, sharp, unfamiliar feeling stirs inside. I recognize it distantly, like a flavor not tasted since childhood.

“I’m fine,” I say, meaning it more than expected. I help my patient sit up, wrapping a fresh blanket around her shoulders. I’m halfway through checking her lip bandage when Karen appears in the doorway.

“Trixie.” Her voice is tight, strained in a way that’s new. “Can we talk?”

I glance at the patient. She grips my wrist, not hard, just enough.

“One second,” I tell her, following Karen into the hall. She pulls me just far enough from the doorway so my patient can’t hear. “Security called someone,” she says quietly. “I don’t know who, but he looked like he was reading off a script, and he kept saying your name.”

My stomach sinks.

“They called who?”

“I don’t know. But his face when he hung up…” She shakes her head. “He looked like he’d been given an order he didn’t want to follow.”

I rub my temples. Of course, someone on security has Carter’s number. Naturally, they called him. I can already picture him, jaw set, coat half buttoned, heading straight for us.

“Shit,” I mutter, sounding more exhausted than anything.

Karen squeezes my arm. “Go finish up with your patient. I’ll handle whatever’s coming.”

I nod, turning back toward Exam Room 3, but heavy boots echo in the hallway, and I don’t need to look to know whose they are.

Chapter 7

Trixie

Carter rounds the corner like a shot. He’s still in his gym clothes, a gray t-shirt soaked with sweat, and athletic pants that trace the hard lines of his legs. His hair is damp, as if he leapt straight off the punching bag and onto his bike. His eyes lock onto mine before he’s fully turned, wearing an expression I’ve only seen once, that night in the barn when Evan’s gun glinted in the headlights and Carter moved before anyone else could even react.

“Trix,” he says, his voice steady and low but just as intimidating as I remember. “What’s going on?”

“I’m fine.” I raise my hands, showing I’m okay and trying to keep him from closing the space between us. “Totally fine. It was a domestic thing. The husband showed up, I dealt with it, and security’s got him cuffed.”

Something flashes in his eyes, a quick, ruthless calculation. His gaze drops to my hands, and I realize they’re smeared with blood. Not mine. His. The abuser’s blood, streaked across my knuckles and the heel of my hand where I slammed it into his nose.

A muscle jumps in Carter’s jaw as he speaks, as if he’s choosing each word one by one from a short list. “Who?” he asks.

“Carter.”

“Who, Trixie.”

The second time is not a question. I recognize the tone, the one he uses on his fighters when they’re trying to dodge a question about an injury. The one that means he’s already past the point of asking politely.

“The patient’s husband. He’s in custody. The police are on their way back.”

He takes a step forward. I don’t move. We stand like that, the fluorescent lights humming above us, the distant beep of monitors carrying down the hallway like something from another world.

“Did he touch you?”