“Easton—” I start, then gasp because the sound of my voice only tightens his grip.
He doesn’t say a word. He hugs me as if I’m a security blanket. It’s a chest-crushing, desperate embrace that makes it hard to breathe. His chin lands on my shoulder and then burrows in my neck, and although I’m supposed to be mad at every Royal in this mansion, I can’t stop myself from stroking one hand through his hair. This is Easton, my self-proclaimed “big brother” even though we’re the same age. He’s larger than life, incorrigible, often annoying and always screwed-up.
He probably knew about Reed and Brooke—there’s no way Reed kept that a secret from Easton—and yet I can’t bring myself to hate him. Not when he’s trembling in my arms. Not when he sags backward and gazes at me with such overwhelming relief it takes my breath away.
And then I blink and he’s gone, stumbling out of my room without a word. I feel a spark of concern. Where were the smartass remarks? Some cocky comment about how I came back because of his fine bod and animal magnetism?
Frowning, I shut the door and force myself not to dwell on Easton’s strange behavior. I’m not allowing myself to get caught up in any Royal drama again, not if I want to survive my time here.
I stick the wallet into my backpack, whip my sweatshirt off, and crawl onto the bed. The silk coverlet feels like heaven against my bare arms.
In Nashville, I was staying in a cheap motel with the scratchiest bedspread known to man. The thing was also covered with stains I never, ever want to know the source of. I’d landed a job waiting tables at a diner when Callum showed up, same way he’d shown up in Kirkwood and dragged me out of the strip club.
I still can’t decide if my life was better or worse before Callum Royal found me.
My heart clenches as I picture Reed’s face. Worse, I decide. So much worse.
As if he knew that I was thinking about him, Reed speaks from behind my closed door. “Ella. Let me in.”
I ignore him.
He knocks twice. “Please. I need to talk to you.”
I roll over on my side with my back to the door. His voice is killing me.
A growl comes from the other side of the door. “You really think this scanner is gonna keep me out, baby? You know better.” He pauses. When I don’t answer, he goes on. “Fine. I’ll be back. Grabbing a toolbox.”
The threat—which I know isn’t an empty one—has me flying off the bed. I slap my hand on the security panel and a loud beep fills the room as the lock clicks. I throw open the door and meet the eyes of the guy who was in the process of destroying me before I left. Thank God I put a stop to that. He’s never getting close enough to have any impact on me again.
“I am not your baby,” I hiss out. “I am nothing to you, and you’re nothing to me, you understand me? Don’t call me baby. Don’t call me anything. Stay the hell away from me.”
His blue eyes do a thorough examination of me from head to toe. Then he speaks in a gruff voice. “Are you okay?”
My breathing is so short it’s a wonder I don’t pass out. No oxygen is getting in. My lungs burn and my vision is red and hazy. Did he not listen to a word I just said?
“You look thinner,” he says flatly. “You haven’t been eating.”
I move to close the door.
He just shoves a palm against it and pushes it open, stepping inside while I glare at him.
“Get out,” I snap.
“No.” His gaze continues to sweep over me, as if he’s checking me for injuries.
He should be checking himself, because he’s the one who looks like he got beat up. Literally—there’s a purplish bruise peeking from the collar of his T-shirt. He’s been in a fight recently. Or maybe several fights, judging by the slight grimace on his face when he draws a breath, as if his rib cage can’t handle the act of breathing.
Good, a vindictive part of me crows. He deserves to suffer.
“Are you okay?” he repeats, his gaze never leaving mine. “Did anyone…touch you? Hurt you?”
Hysterical laughter bubbles out. “Yes! Someone hurt me! You hurt me!”
Frustration clouds his face. “You left before I could explain.”
“There’s no explanation you could give that would make me forgive you,” I spit out. “You screwed your father’s girlfriend!”
“No,” he says firmly. “I didn’t.”
“Bull.”
“It’s true. I didn’t.” He takes another breath. “Not that night. She was trying to convince me to talk to my dad on her behalf. I was trying to get rid of her.”
I stare at him in disbelief. “She didn’t have any clothes on!” I stop abruptly, my mind snagging on one particular thing he’d said.
Not that night?
Anger rises in my throat. “Let’s pretend for a second that I believe you didn’t have sex with Brooke that night,” I glare at him, “which I don’t. But let’s pretend I do. You still slept with her some other time, didn’t you?”
Guilt, deep and unmistakable, flickers in his eyes.
“How many times?” I demand.