Fragile Little Things ?

23 fall

She goes quiet, turning her face slightly and not meeting my eye.

My rage only intensifies. “Indigo, if he laid a finger on you, I swear to God—”

“He didn’t hurt me.” She lifts her head so that I finally get a look of her face. I suck in a breath. Other than her puffy, slightly red eyes, there are no bruises. But her skin is so pale. And her eyes are welling up again.

There’s little I hate more, I quickly realize, than seeing tears in her eyes. She must notice something in my face because she looks away again to hide the tears that run down her cheeks.

Quietly, almost too quiet to catch, she murmurs, “But it still hurts.”

I frown. “Where?”

She looks up at me in surprise, not expecting me to have heard. And then, like it hurts to look at me for any longer, she goes back to staring at the ground.

“Here.” She puts her hand over her heart, clutching a handful of her shirt like she wants to rip it off. “Everywhere.”

My heart cracks right down the center. Fucked. I’m so fucked. Gingerly, I reach for her hand, so she’s forced to let her shirt loose. I know the type of pain she’s talking about. The type that hurts so much you wish you could rip it off—so much you wish you could rip your heart right out of your ribcage and throw it away.

She sniffs. “Can you take me home?”

I nod tightly, clearing my throat. “Ye—”

“Not to my place,” Indie says, cutting me off. Her cheeks light up as she meets my gaze. “Scarlett might have . . . someone over.” She chews on her lower lip, clearly nervous, and her eyes grow bleary again. “Can I . . . I’m really sorry to ask this but— can I stay at your place for the night?”

I lift a hand to my temple to soothe ache that’s starting there. Because why did she have to ask it that way? Like there was any chance of me saying no.

I shrug off my jacket.

“Put this on,” I order, my gaze narrowing on her bare shoulders. “Why are you dressed like Tarzan?”

She mumbles something along the lines of “not dressed like Tarzan” under her breath but takes my jacket anyway, her hold weak. Tsking, I pull it out of her hold, clenching my jaw. “Put your arm out.”

Her big brown eyes slide to me, only a hint of defiance there. Not enough. I know she would normally refuse the offer, but she’s clearly exhausted because she listens, and I slip the jacket over one arm, then the other. She drowns in my leather jacket, but it makes me feel a little better that she won’t freeze any more.

I get on the bike, and she stands awkwardly on the sidewalk. I glance at her, lifting a brow. “You coming, sweetheart?”

She swallows and takes a deep breath, wiping at her cheeks with the backs of her hands. Then she gets on behind me. Immediately, what little warmth her body has to offer softens my back. Around us, the snow falls more rapidly. I get the faint scent of her—sweet like coconut cream, and it gives me a heady rush.

I can’t count the nights I dreamed of that scent. Of running my tongue down every square inch of her body to see what it would taste like. I clamp down on my jaw and clear my throat, adjusting myself on the seat hoping she doesn’t notice.

It doesn’t exactly help that when I start the engine, she has no choice but to set her hands on the sides of my torso. It feels like I haven’t been touched in forever, and getting it from her with only the fabric of my shirt between her skin and mine—