Winston would decimate them with just a look.
“No.” She shakes her head, her gaze dropping from mine. She can’t even look me in the eyes right now. Is she ashamed? What the fuck happened to her? She shouldn’t feel shame. Hell no. Some prick put his hands on her and fuckinghurther. “I just—I can’t tell you.”
“Charlotte.” Her startled gaze goes to mine and I see the fear swirling in her eyes, which makes me feel like a bigger asshole. Like one of her brothers. Swear to God if one of them hurt her…
What? What would I do? Why would I care?
I care because if this marriage actually happens, she’ll eventually become mine and I’m a Constantine. We take care of what’s ours.
And for some reason, she feels like mine. My responsibility. Seeing the bruises on her arm caused something unfamiliar to rise within me. Something I’ve never really felt before in my life.
Protectiveness. Possessiveness.
“What?” She visibly swallows, her voice shaky.
“Tell me later, okay?” I keep my voice soft so as not to scare her.
Which is really fucked up, if you ask me.
She nods, her gaze dropping from mine, her cheeks tinged pink. If I could, I’d pull her back into my arms—because fuck me, that kiss we just shared was hot—but she might freak out.
And I think I’ve already freaked her out enough.
Even though I reluctantly accepted her answer, I’m still mad. Anger suffuses every inch of my body, leaving me tense and ready to pounce as I glance around the glittering room full of mostly strangers who are here to celebrate me.
Us.
Someone who’s most likely in the room did this to her. I can guarantee it. And when I find out who it is?
They need to watch the fuck out.
I may not be thrilled to go through a fake wedding with this woman, but damned if I’m going to let someone abuse my fiancée. She may be a pain in the ass sometimes, but she’smypain in the ass.
And no one can touch her.
Not a single soul.
“Just—give me a minute, okay?” she asks, her voice soft, her head still bent. Downright submissive.
“Sure,” I tell her, wishing I could give her comfort.
Knowing I’m not the one who’s capable of it. Not right now.
She remains quiet and so do I, giving her the chance to gather herself. I keep my gaze on her, unable to look away, drinking in her subtle beauty. The slope of her nose, the arch of her cheekbones, the slight jut of her chin that gives her a hint of fierceness. Another server walks by and she grabs a fresh champagne glass from his tray, bringing it to her mouth, her pink glossy lips resting on the rim before she takes a sip.
I wipe the corner of my mouth, bringing my finger away to stare at it.
Pink sparkly gloss.
Remnants of her on my lips.
I’m going to have to kiss her again here eventually. We have to make this look real. That’s what Winston told me. Mother too. They got me alone last night and gave me a speech about how important it is that we look like an actual couple who are in love. Our relationship has to appear as real as possible.
But for who?
That’s the million fucking dollar question.
Reaching out, I rest my hand on Charlotte’s back, purposely keeping my touch light. I might be doing this for appearance’s sake, but I also want to reassure her that I really do have her back.