6. Alex #2
He throws his arm back and catches her across the upper body. She stumbles sideways, her shoulder and ribs striking the edge of the dumpster with a hollow metal crash.
Belle folds.
Something inside me tears loose.
I hit him hard enough to drive him into the wall. His head snaps against the brick, and I do it again, one hand locked around his throat while the other finds his face.
He tries to cover himself.
I keep hitting him.
All I can see is Belle crumpled beside the dumpster.
He wedges his knee between us and drives it into my ribs. My grip gives. He shoves me back, grabs Belle by the back of her coat, and yanks her upright between us.
Then he throws her at me.
I catch her against my chest, but the force of it drives me back a step. She makes a small sound, barely more than a breath, and it cuts straight through the blood pounding in my ears.
The man runs.
For half a second, every instinct in me says to go after him.
Then Belle’s knees buckle.
I go down with her, catching her around the waist and getting my other hand behind her head before she can strike the pavement.
“Belle.”
Her eyes are open, but they slide past me without seeing.
“Baby, look at me.”
The word is out before I can stop it. Her gaze finally catches on mine, and I can breathe again.
“Are you okay? Tell me where it hurts.”
“My shoulder.”
Her voice trembles.
I pull her against me and hold on.
There is no decision in it. No calculation. One moment she is shaking in my arms, and the next I have her pressed against my chest as though I can force every broken piece of the world to stay outside the circle of my body.
Please be okay. Please. Please.
“Baby, are you okay?”
“I don’t know.”
The answer breaks against my throat.
She fists both hands in my sweatshirt and buries her face beneath my jaw, holding on so tightly I can feel every tremor running through her. I wrap myself around her, pulling her closer as rain gathers in her hair and her breath comes fast and hot against my neck.
“I’ve got you.” My voice breaks over the words. “I’ve got you, Belle.”
She curls deeper into me like she believes it, and I hold her as if that is enough to make it true.
For one suspended moment, there is no betrayal between us. No locked doors, no blackmail, no ten years of rage.
Only Belle shaking in my arms and the knowledge that someone tried to take her, hurt her, while she was under my protection.
My hand cups the back of her head. I press my mouth to her rain-soaked hair without thinking.
Her fingers tighten.
Footsteps pound into the alley.
“Mr. Hartley.” Frank’s voice cuts through the rain.
Steven rushes past us toward the far exit with two men behind him, while Frank drops beside Belle and opens the medical kit in his hand. His medic training may not be enough, but right now, he is all we have.
The sound of his voice drags the rest of the world back in.
Belle stiffens against me.
I feel the moment she remembers whose arms she is in. Her grip loosens, but mine does not.
“Sir,” Frank says carefully. “I need to check her.”
I force my arms to release her.
Belle pulls away and folds both arms around her middle without looking at me. Cold settles into every place her body had been pressed against mine.
Frank reaches for her shoulder, examining it without moving her more than he has to.
“Any pain in your head or neck?”
“No.”
“Did you lose consciousness?”
“No.”
“Dizziness? Blurred vision?”
She shakes her head.
“Her ribs,” I say. “She hit the dumpster on her right side.”
“I heard him,” Belle mutters.
Her purse lies open beside the milk crate. Her wallet has fallen onto the wet pavement. The phone remains on speaker.
“Ms. Clarke?” the bank representative says. “Hello? Are we still connected? Ms. Clarke?”
The attacker stepped over all of it.
He didn’t want her wallet. He didn’t want her phone.
He wanted Belle.
Steven and the others do not find him.
They check the surrounding streets, pull traffic footage, and search every service alley within six blocks. By then, the man has disappeared into the rain.
Frank gathers the groceries and takes the wheel. I climb into the back beside Belle with her purse and wallet in my hands while she sits curled against the seat, one arm held carefully across her ribs.
Every turn makes her wince.
Each time, my body moves toward her before I stop it.
“You can lean on me.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you aren’t.”
She closes her eyes.
I do not argue again. I slide my arm along the seat behind her, close enough to catch her if the pain makes her sway, but I keep my hands to myself.
Bee meets us at the penthouse door, crying loudly as if she intends to make sure we know exactly how she feels about being left alone.
Belle walks past her without bending down.
That frightens me more than the shaking. Belle never ignores that bratty cat.
The doctor arrives few minutes later.
He examines Belle first because I make it clear there is no other acceptable order.
She sits on the edge of the guest room bed while he checks her shoulder and presses carefully along her ribs.
“No fracture that I can feel,” the doctor says. “Likely bruising across the ribs and a strain through the shoulder. I want imaging tomorrow if the pain increases or breathing becomes difficult.”
She nods. But I have a feeling she wouldn’t tell me if the pain gets worse. I make it a point to inform the doctor to come back again anyway, whether or not she calls.
She looks away.
He checks her pupils and asks the same questions Frank did.
No dizziness. No nausea. No head impact.
Only after ruling those out does he give her something for the pain and a mild sedative to help her sleep.
“You may feel unsteady,” he warns. “Don’t walk around without assistance tonight.”
“I can manage.”
The doctor looks at me.
“She won’t be alone,” I say.
Belle’s eyes lift to mine.
The doctor cleans my knuckles, tapes two of them, and checks my ribs. My lip does not need stitches, though he tells me it will hurt like hell tomorrow.
I barely hear him.
Belle sits on the bed with her injured arm tucked close to her body. The medication is already softening the tension around her eyes.
Someone got to her while she was under my surveillance. Under my protection.
The thought moves through me with enough force to make my bruised hands curl.
After the doctor leaves, Belle pushes herself upright without asking for help, but her knees give the moment she stands. I cross the room before she can fall, catching her by the uninjured arm and sliding my other hand around her waist, careful to avoid her bruised ribs.
“I have you.”
Her body stills.
The words hang between us, carrying far more than I meant to give them.
I let go of her arm but keep my hand close to her back as she makes her way toward the bed. Her purse, wallet, and phone are still in my other hand.
“You don’t have to carry my things,” she says.
“You are not carrying anything tonight.”
“I can hold my purse.”
“No.”
A tired flicker of irritation crosses her face, and it is the most alive she has looked since the alley.“Still controlling, then.”
“Especially now.”
I set her purse on the nightstand. Her wallet goes beside it. I plug in her phone, place a glass of water within reach, and pull back the covers.
Belle watches me as though this version of me is more frightening than the one who dragged her into the penthouse.
“Sit.”
“Stop ordering me around.” She lowers herself carefully. Pain crosses her face before she can hide it. My hand flexes at my side.
I want to kneel in front of her and press my mouth to every place that hurts. I want to gather her against me again, feel her hands close in my sweatshirt and hear her believe me when I tell her I have her.
Instead, I pull the blanket over her legs.
“What’s going on?” I ask. “Who was that guy?”
Her gaze drops.
“I don’t know.”
“Belle.”
“I don’t know.” She won’t look at me. “A mugger. It’s a city, Alex. It happens.”
“He wasn’t a mugger.” I keep my voice level.
It costs me. “Your wallet was open on the ground. Your phone sat on a crate in plain view. He stepped over both of them to get to you. He targeted you.” Her chin comes up.
I keep going. “And it’s the second time someone’s come after you.
Are you really going to sit there and call it a coincidence when it’s clearly a pattern? ”
There — the flicker. Her eyes cut left for half a heartbeat, the tell I learned when she was twenty and lying to her uncle about where she’d been. Then the stone face comes down over it, the one she wore on a park bench while I tore her life apart.
“You expected to be followed.” I say.
“I was being careful.”
“Because of what?”
She reaches for the water, but the medication has slowed her down. Before she can strain her shoulder, I pick up the glass and hold it out to her.
Her fingers brush mine, and my breath catches.
She notices. Her eyes lift to my face for a second before she takes the glass and pulls her hand away.
“Who are you afraid of, Belle?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
Her eyes flash. “You don’t get to demand the truth from me after everything you’ve done.”
It should make me angry. Instead, all I can see is the way her hand trembles around the glass.
“I can protect you.”
A tired, bitter laugh leaves her. “Protect me?”
“Yes.”
“You were following me, Alex. You had men watching me. You tracked where I went, who I spoke to, when I left the apartment. Don’t stand there and pretend that makes you safe.”
“And because I was there, he didn’t take you.”
Her mouth closes.
The words land between us, ugly and true. The truth of it does not absolve me. They do not erase what I did. They do not make me the better man. We both know that.
“Tell me what is happening.”
Her grip weakens around the glass.
“I can’t.”
“Tell me the truth,” I say. “Whatever it is. Whoever it is. I can put a wall around you that nothing gets through. Is that what the two piles of groceries are about ? Do you owe someone money? Is that why you are afraid to use mine? I can help.”