Chapter 9: Terms

Annabel's POV

When Jonas came back, I was on the bathroom floor.

I had been sick twice, and my wrist still showed four red marks from Rowan's fingers.

He knocked on the open door frame and did not step inside.

"He's locked in the guest wing," he said. "I have his key. Nobody else has one."

"Did you hear all of it?" I asked.

"Yes."

I pulled myself up by the edge of the sink and rinsed my mouth.

In the mirror my face was gray, and my hair was stuck to my forehead.

"Nine hundred and forty," I said.

"Yes, ma'am."

"I have it, Jonas. I have his voice saying it, and the envelopes, and the dates."

"You do," he said. "It's good evidence, and you got it yourself."

I turned around and looked at him.

The knuckles of his right hand were split open, the skin torn down to red.

He had put his fist through the plaster outside the guest wing, and he had not mentioned it.

"Sit," I said.

I pointed at the edge of the tub.

He sat, and he looked huge in that small bathroom.

He held his hurt hand carefully away from the carpet.

I took the first aid kit out from under the sink and knelt in front of him.

"Annabel," he said. It was the first time he had used my name. "You don't have to."

"I know what I have to do."

I took his wrist and turned his hand over.

His skin was warm and rough.

It was the first time in three years that I had touched a man because I chose to.

I cleaned the cuts with an alcohol wipe.

He did not flinch.

I wrapped the gauze, and I pinned it, and I kept my eyes on his hand.

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