Becca looks back at herself in the mirror with hollow eyes. I watch her pupils shrink and focus on every tiny mark on her face. Every bruise. She looks beat to hell, because she was. Looking at the marks makes my blood boil. I can’t wait to get my hand wrapped around their throats so I can beat them to bloody pulps.

“I’m going to need better concealer,” she says with no emotion whatsoever. Her fingertips gently touch her face. She's tracing a cut over her eye and hovering over a large bruise on her jaw.

“I’ll get you everything that you need.”

“We could just make a stop at my house for most of the things I need.”

I shake my head and don’t wait for her to continue her thought as I say, “I sent Clara out a bit ago to get you new things.” Her eyes dart to mine in the mirror.

“That’s very kind, but I don’t need-”

“It’s not about need. It’s about you pleasing me. I seem to recall you saying you’d do what I asked?”

Her face falls, and I feel like a prick. But she fucking needs this. She won’t let me in any other way.

“I wanna see Jax.”

“You should shower first,” I say and as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could shove them back in. Who am I to keep her away from him? He’s her son. But she really looks like hell. I can only imagine how he’d react seeing his mom all beat up. “If you wanna-”

“You’re right. I’ll shower first.” She turns around with her back to me and looks at the shower. It’s nothing like what I have at home. I have a state of the art shower system with rainforest shower heads and a solid bench to relax on with the steam going. It also happens to be good for fucking, too. But we’re not at my house yet. I wanna get her put together before she sees Jax, and he’s staying with Ma till then. So instead she’s gonna have to settle for a simple tub and shower setup with a plain white curtain. I mean, it’ll do the trick, but it’s not going to feel nearly as nice, especially on her sore muscles.

“I have a steam room at my house. Just clean up here, and you can relax tonight.”

She turns her head slowly to look at me. I wish she’d fucking talk to me. A tight smile pulls at my lips. Really though, how much has she said to me since I’ve met her? Nothing, really. She’s barely said anything to me. Other than her texts on why we shouldn’t be fucking. I may have looked her up and practically stalked her, but she doesn’t know much about me at all. And I was just doing what I needed to so I could get her in bed.

It’s painfully obvious that I don’t know this woman. I almost got her killed, and I don’t even know her. And she sure as hell doesn’t know me.

“Go ahead and hop in, doll. I’ll sit here and keep you company.” I try to lighten my tone.

She slips off the baggy shirt I put her in and pulls back the curtain with one hand while covering her body with the other. My eyes linger on every bruise, the bandages around her wrists and ankles.

I need to get my mind off this shit. I take a seat on the bench by the towel rack and sit back with my ankles crossed.

“Remember the bandages-” I start, but she doesn’t let me finish.

“I know. I’ll leave them on until I get out.” A moment passes in silence.

“You like sports, doll?” It’s my go-to conversation starter. For all occasions. It’s something I know enough about to dominate the conversation, so I just run with it.

“I was raised a Dolphins fan, so I’m used to hating football by now.” Her sarcastic answer isn’t what I expected. I chuckle and grin with my eyes on her vague silhouette behind the curtain.

“Dolphins? How the hell did that happen?” I ask with the smile still on my face. It’s a rare day when I suggest betting on Miami. But if that’s what she likes, so be it.

“My dad liked them. I liked dolphins. It was an easy choice. I mean, they're like the only team to go into the Super Bowl undefeated, right?”

I huff a laugh. “That was like two decades ago.”

“Still counts.” Her upbeat reply makes me grin. “I like watching the games. I used to go out to a bar and watch them every Sunday. Beer, pizza, wings. You know the way it is. It’s a nice escape.”

“Used to?”

“Life got busy.” She answers with less enthusiasm, making me wish I’d prompted a different question, like who she used to go with. But I know she met her husband in college, so I can guess that answer, and I don’t like it.

I smirk at the curtain. “So you know something about football?”

“I know a little. Like I know the game. I just don’t know the players.”

“What about other sports?”

Her voice noticeably changes. More engaging, more excited. “Jax plays soccer.”

“Isn’t he three?”

“Well, you know, he likes to kick the ball on the field.”

“So your little man is an athlete?” I ask her, but she’s quiet. Her hands have fallen to her sides. It’s silent for a moment; the water spray is the only noise I can hear. And then I watch as her hands move to her face, and a sob comes from the shower.

“Doll, you alright?” My stomach drops. I wonder if it’s finally catching up to her now. If she’s going into shock like Doctor Koleman was worried about.

“Dom?” she finally asks. Her words are muted by the flow of the water. “If something happens to me, please don’t take it out on my son.” My heart clenches, and my vision blurs. The smile vanishes off my face. “I have money. I’ll do anything-”

“Stop it, Becca. Nothing’s happening to you.” I’m hard with my response, but I don’t fucking like the way she’s talking.

“I’m not stupid, Dom.” Her sad voice carries a heavy weight. “Please just don’t hurt him.” I have to take a deep breath and cover my face with my hands. She thinks I’m gonna hurt her son? I can’t fucking believe it. “We don’t have family, but I have a friend in Texas.” Her voice is tight and full of tension. “It’s been a while, but-”

“Doll. I’m gonna need you to knock it the fuck off before I lose my self-control.” That at least gets her to shut up. “I’m not gonna hurt you, or your son.”

“You’re just going to let me go?”

No. My internal answer is immediate, but I don’t voice that. I don’t know what I want from her. I know I feel like shit about what happened, and that I want to make it right. But that’s all I know for certain. “You can’t go until we have De Luca.”

“Is that who took me?” she asks with a hesitant voice. We don’t talk business with women. They stay out of it. Always. I don’t know what to tell her. She’s just standing still in the shower. The water’s going to get cold fast if she doesn’t hurry her ass up.

“Doll, wash up.” After a moment, she reaches for the body wash. I want her to be at ease; I want her to relax. Letting women know about the business isn’t a smart thing to do. But then again, she’s involved already. “De Luca’s a dead man for what he did to you. I promise you that.”