2: what the sidewalk just did to your knee and palms; also, what him carrying you to his penthouse does to your last bits of restraint.
Seven minutes after he told me he’d be here in ten, he pulls up.
I’m still plopped on my ass on the cold concrete, cataloging my injuries in order of How bad is this gonna hurt in the shower, when Bastian’s Range Rover doesn’t so much park as abandon itself at the curb. There’s a screech of tires. The driver’s door flies open before the engine cuts.
I’ve never seen him run before, but I’m not surprised that he does it well. Huge, graceful strides that chew up ground until he’s here.
He drops to his knees in front of me hard enough that it has to hurt, though his face shows no sign of it. “Let me see.”
I hold out my palms. They’re scratched up, embedde
