Pretending (Westshore Series #1)

Chapter Fifty-One: It's Not Your Fault

The door bursts open, cracking against the wall in a loud pop, signalling Warner's arrival. His tall, fit outline fills the doorframe, and he scans the room before his eyes land on me.

I let out a breath of relief, Warner is here. He didn't get in that car; he didn't sign the contract. He is safe.

I haven't been awake very long and I have already replayed the memories of last night in my head numerous times. Waking up alone in this room, having nurses and doctors hover over me, being questioned by a therapist about my poor health. It was all too much at once.

I didn't mean to flinch. I was trying to stay strong but when I saw Warner's hand move so fast, I couldn't help but flinch. Then his eyes narrowed in on the ice pack I had pressed to my cheek. And if possible, the taut line of control in the air pulled to the point of unravelling strand by strand.

Blind rage took over Warner's features when I flinched back from his touch. It's silent for a moment between us, "I swear to God I am going to kill every single one of them." He tells me fiercely.

I picture Paul and Jared, and what they did to us and swallow a lump in my throat, "Trust me I want revenge just as much as you do but we need to be smart about this. We can't just go about murdering people."

He doesn't seem to calm down, he continues to pace the ground like a wild cat. "It happened to you right in front of me," his voice breaks, ragged. "Do you have any idea how that made me feel? Out of anyone in the world, that you were hurt under my protection?

I shake my head. "Warner, don't. It wasn't you that did this to me. It's not your fault."

"How can you say that? Of course, it's my fault! I put you in the middle of this. I brought you to that parking lot!" He yells. He's shaking his head as if I am the one being unreasonable.

"I hate myself," he tells me. "I will never, ever forgive myself,"

He looks miserable, I now know that he has been punishing himself while I have been in this bed. His eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep, and one of his eyes has a purple bruised ring around it from the beating he received himself.

He circles back to me now, crouching next to my bed. "I am going to chop off every one of their fingers that touched you and I will enjoy watching every last one of them suffer for what they did to you," he growls, his voice so low that I feel a fire ignite in the pit of my stomach.

As much as I would love for them all to suffer, I couldn't let him do it. It was all with the police now and anything we do now would just ruin the investigation.

"No Warner. It's with the police. We need to let them deal with it."

Warner's face shutters down. Something indescribable flickers in his bright green eyes, something that is related to fury and a distant cousin to murder.

He is far too angry to listen to me. The mention of the police doesn't help anything,

His breathing grows laboured, and I see him scanning my face, over the stitches on my forehead, my split lip and the bruises that cover the skin he can see. "Like they dealt with it before?" he asks, eyeing my bruised skin. "I can't let this go."

"Please, Warner. Not now. Just be here with me. Please." My voice cracks, still sore. "Everything you did to get away from your dad and this whole world, everything we did. It will all be for nothing if you leave and do something stupid. Don't throw away your whole future over this. I won't forgive you if you do."

He sucks in a breath like I've physically punched him and closes his eyes like he is in actual pain. When he reopens them, his eyes are full of tears. His hand reaches up to trace my jaw, his eyes locked on what I can imagine was the swelling red mark on my cheek.