Chapter 24
Imanage to drive home without crashing, though every time I try to move my arm, it feels like a knife is being jabbed into my shoulder.
I should probably go to the hospital, but that would open a slew of other issues.
My name being registered in a hospital database after I’ve technically gone missing, even though Joel likely still hasn’t reported it; questioning from medical professionals about how I got hurt; the lack of money to cover the copay.
It all would have been too much of a hassle, so I’ll deal with the pain for now.
I’m fairly certain my shoulder is dislocated, and I now have the internet at my disposal to learn how to pop it back into place. I’ll figure it out… probably.
Once I’ve parked in front of the house, I make my way up the creaking porch steps, saying a silent prayer that Ambrose is out in the garage or occupied in his study.
My prayer goes unanswered—shocker—as I gingerly shut the front door behind me and spot Ambrose in the living room.
Play it cool, Brielle.
Avoiding eye contact, I hook the keys on the key ring and reach up with one arm to pull the necklace over my head, setting it on the entryway table along with my bag.
The leather cushions creak in the living room as Ambrose stands and approaches me. Shit.
“Brielle, are you okay?” His concern is palpable, but I don’t want to deal with having a conversation right now.
“I’m fine,” I mutter.
I try to brush past him to head upstairs, but he grabs my good arm to stop me.
“Look at me.”
“No.” The adrenaline rush I’d had earlier is dropping dramatically, and I can’t get the screams of the pastor out of my head no matter how hard I try.
One minute, I’m a woman dead set on vengeance, and the next, I’m overwhelmed with guilt at the monster I’ve become.
What the hell is wrong with me? I fight back tears as they brim in my eyes, staring at the floor as I refuse to make eye contact with Ambrose.
“Brielle,” he says my name with more force this time, but not unkindly. “What the hell happened to you?”
I inhale a shaky breath and meet his worried gaze. “It’s nothing. Just a little accident.”
His eyebrows shoot up, and when he speaks, he’s seething with anger. “A little accident? You’re covered in blood and can’t move your arm. Who did this to you?”
I shake my head as if to say, “Don’t worry about it,” but I can’t speak. I know that as soon as I do, I’ll break.
“Come here.” Ambrose gently guides me to the couch, though I can feel the rage pouring off of him. I sink onto the cushion, and he disappears to the kitchen before returning with a damp, warm washcloth.
He kneels on the ground before me and begins to dab at the dried blood on my cheek. His face is so close to mine, and I gaze into his deep, dark brown eyes that are zeroed in on my wounds.
“I think my shoulder is dislocated,” I announce.
Ambrose takes a slow breath to calm himself and nods. “I figured as much. I can help you pop it back into place in just a second. Unless something is broken.”
“Okay.”
He closes his eyes for a couple of seconds before he speaks again, attempting to conceal the anger lingering beneath the surface. “I’m going to ask you again. Who did this to you?”
“A pastor. I read about some awful things he had done and picked him as my next target, so I drove up to his church this morning, and things got a little messier than I would have liked. I had a better plan this time and everything.”
Ambrose’s eyes darken, his tone lethal as he says, “I’ll fucking kill him.”
The vitriol in his voice surprises me. Even when he had killed Richard in the garden last week, he’d been cruel and calculated, lacking emotion. Now, he barely seems to be controlling the anger raging inside him.
“He’s dead now, so it doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me. I wish he wasn’t dead so I could torture him myself.”
My mouth drops open as I stare at him, taken aback by his sudden intensity. I had expected his annoyance at me having done a sloppy job, maybe a little concern about me being hurt, but not this visceral protectiveness. It throws me off kilter even more than I already am.
It’s too much. The softness in his touch, the fierce possessiveness of his words, the tenderness with which he cleans my skin.
I lean back slightly, putting a few more inches of space between us to catch my breath as I smile and say, “Well, lucky for you, I burned that motherfucker and his church to the ground.”
He chuckles. “Good girl.”
The phrase should irritate me just as much as his “pet” nickname does, but my chest flutters with something strange. I ignore it and stand up, needing to do something besides sit here and stare in his eyes with him kneeling before me.
“I’ll take a shower in a few minutes to clean up. No need to worry about the cuts. Can you just help me fix my shoulder?”
He stands and sets aside the washcloth, then takes a moment to examine my shoulder before saying, “Like I said, I think we can pop it back into place, but we’ll need to keep an eye on it in case anything gets inflamed.”
“Okay.”
He positions himself beside me and instructs me how to move my arm.
He shifts quickly, helping me pop the shoulder back into place with a sudden, firm movement.
A sharp pain cuts through me, and I cry out, gripping his hand.
But as quickly as it came, the harsh pain subsides, leaving behind a dull ache.
“Wow, that already feels better,” I say, feeling suddenly awkward about my hand in his now that the intense moment is over.
He doesn’t let go, though. He traces slow circles on the back of my hand with his thumb, and I turn to look at him. We’re close—too close—yet I don’t pull away. I don’t have the energy to put my walls up after what I experienced today, and all I want to do is pretend like everything is alright.
Ambrose reaches up, brushing a strand of hair away from my face, and his fingers linger on my cheek. His touch is warm and comforting, almost reverent, and I find myself leaning into it rather than pulling away.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” I murmur, suddenly overcome with exhaustion.
He smiles softly, his thumb still tracing patterns on my cheek. “Because, despite what you may think, I do care about you, Brielle. Probably more than I should.”
Our eyes are locked, our faces only inches apart, and we’re suspended in time. My mind is a flurry of activity, yet no coherent thoughts surface. Only a strange, frenetic energy.
When he leans in almost imperceptibly, reality comes rushing back to me and I jolt backwards.
“I-I’m, uh, gonna go shower,” I blurt before rushing upstairs and wondering what the hell almost just happened.