Pretty Perfect Toy - Angel Payne Page 0,34

credit, Yago laughs softly. “Mr. Court is right.” Squares his shoulders toward me, though dips his head in deference. “It is an honor to have been of service, sir. I assure you, that hand will be back in fighting shape very soon.” He jabs a quick upper cut. “I guarantee you, John Cena’s already watching his six.”

Christ.

“John who?”

Before Yago can decide whether to be charmed or confused by Ella’s question, I roll to my feet. “Thank you, doctor. I’m sure you have other people to examine now.” Five seconds after we step out into the hall, I add in a mutter, “Other than the woman on my arm.”

Mishella stops. Huffs. Veers toward an alcove containing a drinking fountain and a wall-mounted defibrillator, her princess swiftly turning to lioness. “This is not his fault, Mr. Court.”

Mr. Court.

Shit.

Clenched jaw. Deep breath in. Back out. In again. “Fine,” I mutter. “You’re right. I’m just—”

“In pain?”

No.

Yes.

But the ice picks in my hand and arm have nothing to do with it. Ella’s fist, clutching the front of my T-shirt, betrays how thoroughly she knows it too. Her whisper, pleading my name into the inches between us, drills it in even further.

She wants in.

A few hours ago, I even vowed that was where she’d be. The silos wouldn’t exist with her. And goddammit, I meant it.

Really, asshole? Because you’ve chosen a twisted way of showing it.

I still can’t explain, even to myself, what happened in those moments after our passion in the bedroom—only that the flood I’d expected came as a firestorm instead. It was acid rain from the corners of my psyche, turning into radioactive fury once hitting the light of my conscience.

That’s the extent of what I logically get.

What my soul declares is something else entirely. A dictate demanding action. Right now.

“They told me Doyle was out here.”

Ella answers my searching stare with a little nose wrinkle. I haven’t answered her question—and she’s had more of that than I intended tonight—but right now, logistics must supersede the chaos. Untangling it for her means setting it straight for myself. Staring at the ceiling for an hour, with my ass parked on an ER gurney, has given me insight into the best place for that—but I’m going to need a car for it.

“I’m right here.” Doyle strides up. “Figured one trip in my truck was probably enough for you tonight, so I called for Scott and the Jag to get—”

“Your truck.” The recognition jolts like good espresso. His fifteen-year-old Ford, a subtle middle finger to all the other creature comforts of being on my payroll, is usually the eyesore I put up with. Right now, it’s my answer. If it’s a slow news day and the paparazzi are looking for the Jag—sometimes I doubt the wisdom in having the fucker custom-designed—they’ll be duped.

“Shit.” Doyle reacts to my incisive stare—at the keys in his hand. “What the hell, Cas?”

I extend my hand, palm up. “Wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

“Would not ask what?” Ella’s stare goes summer sky wide, triangulating from my face to Doyle’s to the keys. “What on Earth are you—” She sputters her way out of my interrupting kiss. “Cassian Cameron Jonathan Court. You will entertain delusions about going nowhere but home right now!”

“Don’t try the puppy eyes on me.” Doyle whisks up both hands. “I’m on her side.”

I advance on him by a step. “Give me the damn keys.”

He slams the collection of metal into my left hand. “You crash it, you’re dead.”

“Too late.” Ella pushes forward so furiously, the curls fan a little off her shoulders. “I have already decided to murder him.” Wheels on me with no mercy. “What in Creator’s name are you—”

“Ella.” The snarl in my voice isn’t what softens her. It’s the choke I add to the end. “I can’t explain. Not right now.” I cup her face, hating how my bandages scrape her soft skin—and make her wince again. “Not yet.”

My emphasis on the final word beams a little hope into her eyes—before she rams them shut. When she reopens them, exhaling hard, I feel my own face tighten. The hope is still there but so is all her stress and exhaustion. I can’t remember her looking this tired, even after a week at my bedside after the shooting, or on the morning I showed up at her family’s villa on Arcadia with the contract that would irrevocably change our relationship.

And me.

Everything about this woman has changed me.

And dammit, I can’t backslide now. Can’t become that person