Page 93 of Micah

His thumb brushes lightly over the bruise already blooming where that awful man grabbed me.

“You sit down.”

“I'm fi?—”

“Ice that.”

His tone isn't harsh.

It's simply certain.

“Please. Ice that for me, Princess. I can’t bear to see you hurt.”

Something about his words melts every argument before it reaches my lips.

I nod.

He disappears toward the freezer behind the bar while I lower myself onto one of the stools with legs that suddenly feel suspiciously like Jell-O.

A moment later he presses a clean towel wrapped around a bag of ice into my hands.

“Hold that there.”

I obey.

Without even thinking.

Then I watch as he bends, slides one arm beneath Patrick's knees and another around his back.

Then changes his mind.

Instead, he simply hoists my brother over one broad shoulder like Patrick weighs no more than a sack of grain.

I blink.

Good Lord.

Micah carries him down the hallway toward my office without so much as a grunt.

The manager's office door closes behind them.

Muffled voices drift through the wall.

Patrick sounds defensive.

Micah?

Micah decidedly does not.

His voice is calm.

Low.

Controlled.

I can't make out the words.

Only the tone.