Page 9 of Point Blank

“Thanks.” Her tense expression had softened to something he couldn’t put his finger on. It wasn’t sad, or regretful, or any other emotion he’d hoped he’d see the first time they came face-to-face since he screamed at her to run. She twisted her lips to the side and her gaze shifted beyond his shoulder.

Fear.

Jesus, why was it so hard to talk to her? There was too much history between them. They were beyond small talk, but this wasn’t the time or place for serious shit.

“What’s going on?”

Her eyes darted around, and she took another sip without answering. He exhaled through his lips. She wasn’t making this easy. But he sure as hell couldn’t walk away. Not this time.

Something in her hair glittered in the low lighting. He stretched out his fingers and lifted a handful of her locks. Gritty chunks of something shook loose and fell to the floor. His abdominal muscles clenched. He leaned closer and studied her face. Her eyes sharpened on his, but she didn’t move away. Tiny cuts dusted her cheeks.

“What happened? Were you in an accident?”

Her throat moved on a swallow and her thumb traced the column of the glass she still clung to. She nodded. He dropped her hair and rested his hand on her shoulder. God, it was good to touch her.

“Want to talk in private?”

Her brisk nod only intensified his need to get her somewhere quiet. As she lowered herself from the stool, her hip brushed against his and he moved his hand toward the small of her back. He jerked it away before his palm connected with her spine and led her down the hall to Tasha’s office.

He opened the door and let her go in then closed it and pulled the blinds on the single window shut.

“Why are you here, Serena?” As much as he needed to find out what had happened, he also needed to know why she’d come to him. She wasn’t stupid. She knew this was his sister’s bar. No, her showing up at The Fainting Goat wasn’t a coincidence. He turned to face her and stopped. She wasn’t sitting in one of the chairs but leaning her ass against the desk, her hands pressed to her temples.

“Look, Milo. I know you don’t want to see me any more than I want to see you.” Her fingers moved in a circular motion, as if she were massaging a headache away.

Guilt lit a fire in his guts. He shrugged before she could continue. “Doesn’t bother me any.”

She squinted. He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. No way he could tell her how much seeing her affected him. God, he’d wanted to see her for two fucking years—to explain, to apologize, hell, to see if she’d made it to safety that night . . . and here she was.

Her eyes shot blue fire. “Bullshit.”

What could he say to that? After all, he’d told her he never wanted to see her again, and at the time, he’d meant it. At Alban’s, he’d been on the cusp of escaping the life he’d been trapped in. He’d held a ticket to freedom he couldn’t pass up. Seeing Serena that night had been like seeing the demons of his past holding shackles out, ready to confine him. He and Serena had both been so entrenched in the lifestyle, so he couldn’t blame her for that. But he’d desperately wanted to become an honest citizen—everything his father wasn’t. Now that he was, he felt like a pile of shit for telling her he never wanted to see her again.

She flicked her hair over her shoulder. Time to change the subject.

“Tell me what happened. You look like shit.”

She snorted and rubbed her index finger beneath her eye, smearing the black marks even more. “Still a sweet-talker, I see.”

He closed the distance between them, and she lifted her chin. God she was pale. Her pupils remained dilated, even under the brighter lights. Her difficulty talking about the accident could have something to do with shock.

“Is that why you’re here? You want me to sweet-talk you?” He was pressing her buttons, but something had to get her talking.

Her lips moved into a smirk. “Easy, Milo.” She pressed her palm to his chest, easing him back a step. Her icy palm ate through the material of his T-shirt. “I had nowhere else to go.” Her tongue swept across her top teeth, and she curled her fingers away from his pec.

Looking at her, he zeroed in on a stain on the cuff of her sweater. He lifted her elbow.

He pulled at the material and saw a river of dried blood on the inside of her sleeve. “Why the hell is there blood on your arm?”

Her arm shook. “Oh, god. Oh my god.” Her free hand grabbed at his forearm. “I’m going to get sick.”

He towed her to the bathroom adjoined to the office. She cupped her hands around the white porcelain sink and sucked in several low breaths. Her shoulders shuddered on each inhale. He pressed one hand on the center of her back and smoothed back her hair with the other.

Her eyes met his in the mirror. Tears brimmed along her lashes. The bottom dropped out of his stomach at the sight of the cerulean blues that always glowed when she cried. “Serena, what happened?”

She shook her head and straightened. “I need to get this off.” She shrugged out of her sweater and a low wail escaped her lips when she found an even bigger stain on her white shirt. She ripped the material over her head, baring her white lace bra. She pumped the soap dispenser and began scrubbing at the bloodstain on her skin.

“Honey, don’t worry about the stains. I want to know what happened.” His patience was thinning. “Where are you hurt?” He inspected her body.