Since his lips are on mine, I don’t process his words. I’m so wrapped up in him, forgetting my real life, and I lift my arms to assist him. When I tip my head back, he rains kisses over my cheek while slowly drawing the hoodie over my body. I gasp in pain, knocking me out of my Lincoln haze, and reality smacks into me harder than my need for this man.

“What the fuck?”

I freeze at his tone.

He’s staring at my neck in fury as I lie underneath him, wearing only a sports bra. Quinton’s damage is on full display.

Chapter Twenty-One

Lincoln

Anger coils through me, tightening around my veins, like a snake as I stare down at her.

Cassidy’s eyes are glossy with humiliation and panic. She rubs them, an attempt to blur away the evidence, before looking around the room in panic. She quickly tries to grab the hoodie from the floor, but it’s out of her reach. In order to grab it, she’d have to get out of bed.

I glare at her neck as if it were my worst enemy, silently begging for answers while processing what I’m seeing. The skin is bruised, a fusion of black and purple, and swear to God, I see a damn handprint pressed against the dark colors.

“Cassidy,” I grit out. “What the hell happened?”

“It’s nothing,” she rushes out, crossing her arms over her chest in an X motion.

“Bullshit,” I snarl. “Someone put their goddamn hands on you. There’s a handprint around your throat.” I pull back to examine her further, my eyes hardening with every second. “Who did this to you?”

She stays silent.

“Cass, you’re scaring me here.”

“Just stop, okay.” She swats at me, and taking the hint, I draw back, so I’m no longer above her. Pulling herself up, she wraps the blanket tightly around her, as if a shield to her secrets. “You know what? It’s late. You should probably go.”

I flinch. “Whoa. How did we go from that to you kicking me out?”

She uses her arm to cover her eyes, to cover her tears. “I can’t talk about it.”

Reaching out, I gently pull her arm away from her face and use the pad of my thumb to brush away a tear. “Baby, if there’s anyone you can talk to, it’s me.” I fight for my voice to be soft and nurturing, but there’s no unclenching my jaw. I’m holding in my anger to comfort her.

She shakes her head, sobbing. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does fucking matter,” I grind out, and I hate that a hint of my softness disappears to make way for anger. “Give me a name. Who hurt you?”

She stares at the ceiling. “Some guy.”

“Give me that guy’s information, so I can go rip his fucking head off.”