Fortunately, Marilyn wasn’t one to linger in painful, emotional moments, and she’d straightened her spine then opened her bag to prepare to do my hair. She painted my nails too. There was no need for makeup considering I was wearing various shades of purple and pink already. Plus, anything touching my face hurt. It even hurt to smile too wide.
Kallum had leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, glowering. I wasn’t sure if it was because he was a protective, kind man and seeing a woman, a friend bruised and battered like this, fucked with him. Or if he was still harboring guilt for having employed a fuck-stick like Dante. Or because there was some protective, alpha male showdown going on with Hades who was off ‘getting his shit.’ Anderson had been lounging in the chair in my room before Marilyn and Kallum arrived. Both had looked at Anderson—Marilyn with obvious interest, Kallum with a glower.
Kallum had given Marilyn a ride so he didn’t get the chance to say whatever may have been burning inside of him. I’d dealt with enough males in the past twenty-four hours.
Hades had arrived not long after they left, with Marilyn promising to come over once I was home.
And here she was keeping her promise.
“A man wearing a Sons of Templar cut and wearing the absolute fuck out of it is in your house,” she fanned herself with one hand as she put her bag on one of the chairs at the end of my bed. Then she ruffled Sirius’s head. He’d been incredibly fascinated by Hades when he’d first walked in with me. But he quickly became incredibly protective of me once he’d gotten a good look at me and the tentative way I was moving around the house. He had not left my side since.
I felt awkward with Hades in my house, unsure of what to do with myself. Suddenly, my cozy, colorful, chic home felt strange and foreign. I felt uncomfortable inside of my own battered and bruised skin, staring out all of the windows I’d loved so much yesterday. And all the yesterdays before that. I’d adored the fact that I could look out every single window and not see a house or the evidence of a single soul.
Now, I felt exposed and unsafe. Or I definitely would’ve felt like that had Hades not been here.
But he was here.
I was totally fucking glad he was here. That was supremely anti-feminist of me, but sometimes when your ex beats you half to death you need a scary, sexy, dangerous biker lingering in your living room with a gun.
I’d offered him every kind of liquid I had in my fridge, including cold-pressed celery juice and kombucha. He’d declined everything without even looking at me. He was too busy looking at all the entrances and exits with a furrowed brow. I figured that the locks weren’t up to his standard. I must’ve been annoying the shit out of him since he ordered me to lie down in my bed. Or maybe he’d noted the way I was holding myself and had barely slept last night.
Whatever it was, I’d been glad for the command and had let him walk me into my bedroom. He’d glanced to the bed once with an empty expression, then he had walked out without a word. I hadn’t known how to take that. I didn’t have enough energy to think about how to take that. So I ran myself a bath and stayed in there for forty-five minutes. Then I’d put on my very expensive and comfy sweats which I’d thought were a rather ridiculous purchase since sweats weren’t supposed to be expensive, but I was incredibly happy I owned them now since I wanted to look effortlessly and impossibly glam.
Hades had not entered my bedroom again, though. Not even to ask me if I needed more water or pills or something to eat. Then again, he wasn’t here to take care of me in that kind of way. He was here to make sure I wasn’t horribly murdered.
Marilyn, thank God, was here to take care of me in that kind of way.
“I’m aware of the man,” I told her, pausing the Real Housewives and sitting up in bed. She had started unpacking everything that was bursting out of her Chanel.
“Oh, as long as you’re aware,” she replied, raising her brow while handing me a jar of edible cookie dough and a spoon. I grinned, shaking my head, taking it gratefully.
“Well, he kind of owes me one,” I hedged, opening the jar, avoiding eye contact.
She continued unearthing snacks with varying degrees of sugar from her bag. “I’m going to need to know why a member of the Sons of Templar owes you one and why the fuck you haven’t told me about it,” she replied, holding up what I knew to be a very expensive bottle of Pinot Noir from New Zealand. “I’m also going to need to know how many pain killers you’re on, so I can pour your wine accordingly. The good ones you get a big glass, the really good ones you get an even bigger one.” She winked.