Page 62

“No. Go back to your room.”

Manic hadn’t stepped foot in the penthouse in three days, and if he wasn’t in a good headspace, someone needed to talk to him. If Axell thought I’d make this easy, he was sorely mistaken. That didn’t prevent me from letting him think it though.

“Fine,” I offered sweetly, but the moment his guard faltered, I zipped past. Axell cursed and lunged for me, but I sidestepped and entered the kitchen. Soft, warm light bounced off the figure by the sink.

Breath seized in my throat.

Manic leaned against the counter, eyes heavy, chest heaving as though he were seconds from exploding. Blood stained his face and gear—darker where it caked his shirt. It misted across his skin as if he’d severed limbs. Maybe he had.

He looked… exhausted. Haunted.

My pulse drummed. Not from who he might have tortured, but because of how he looked. To my fucking surprise, I was worried about Manic. At what point in my captivity did I begin to care?

“Come on,” Axell grumbled, clasping my arm so tightly that I whimpered.

A resounding click echoed off the kitchen walls, and I immediately froze, fearing Manic had a gun pointed at my head. Again. But when I lifted my eyes, it was Axell who stood frozen beside me.

Manic aimed his gun at his own security, a moment of clarity shining in his eyes. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

“Let her go,” Manic said quietly, “and get the fuck out of my penthouse. I’ll see you in the morning.”

They stared at each other in absolute silence, Manic’s arm unwavering. Axell looked like he wanted to argue.

“This one is loaded,” Manic said.

Axell released me with a huff and shook his head. Two seconds later, the thud of his boots followed him out. Manic exhaled and closed his eyes. It wasn’t until the elevator landed on the ground level that I dared to inch closer. Dared to look around.

“Don’t,” Manic warned with his eyes still closed, his voice groggy. “You should go back to bed.”

“I can’t really sleep if you’re destroying the kitchen. Where have you been?”

Shards of glass littered the floor on the opposite end of the kitchen, but I strode toward him anyway. When I reached his side, I noticed his bleeding nose and the blood staining his forehead. It also slipped down the cabinets, meaning he likely had a gash on his palm.

Was this… self inflicted?

A huff of amusement escaped him as I reached for a rag. I turned the sink on and soaked it with ice-cold water.

“Did you miss me?” he murmured with a teasing lilt.

I didn’t, not really, but that didn’t stop the flush from entering my face. Wasn’t I just thinking about him? Regardless, I wanted him to keep talking. I wanted to know what he’d been doing, and where he’d gone. And, to my dismay, I wanted to know if Naomi’s words had been true.

“And what if I did?”

Manic narrowed his eyes. “Then don’t.”

I ignored him and reached for his forehead with the rag, but even at this angle he was too tall. As if realizing this, he leaned down and allowed me to run it across his skin. His hair fell forward, blood soaking the white-blond strands. His shoulders curled in on themselves.

It was shocking—him allowing this. This was the most mild I’d ever seen Manic, except on a few occasions. Unless this wasn’t him relaxing. I pushed the thought aside and continued to wipe the remnants of blood off his nose.

“You didn’t answer me,” I said softly. “Where have you been?”

“Taking care of a few people.”

“The Irish?”

“Yes.” His eyes blazed down, and silence hung a moment longer before he said, “Naomi has a big mouth.”

I smiled, nodding in agreement.