Bone weary, I dropped my purse on the end table near the front door and leaned bodily against it. What a fucking day, I thought miserably. For the rest of the afternoon I had Paul's little tirade whiplashing through my head until I was emotionally and mentally exhausted.

I'd been pressed to the edge of my limits after my morning talk with Collin and wound up taking it out on him. When I'd left my office to look for him and say as much, Paul was nowhere to be found. His computer was off, his chair tucked in neat to his tidy little desk. But no letter, I thought with a measure of relief. He was likely half way to London by now and already into...sightseeing. Tuesday. He would be back on Tuesday. I'd straighten matters out with him when he returned next week.

Checking my phone, I frowned at the lack of communication from Tristan. His meeting request had prompted more than a few questions, which I wanted answered. Immediately. The only explanation he cared to give was a single email sent shortly after Paul swept out of my office in a snit.

And it contained five meager words.

I need some space. Trust me.

The request for some time alone wasn't a problem, or an issue. We'd spent almost every night for the last three weeks together; a breather was absolutely appreciated and welcomed. Where I hadn't been concerned before, the ominous tone left something to be desired. After the evening of the film fest, between clashing schedules and late evenings at the office, we hadn't had much time or opportunity for much...sightseeing.

Was the timing for this an indication of something bigger? More disconcerting? Or perhaps I was only being sensitive and over analytical. I'd never considered myself one to pry or to push for answers or attention. He'd come around on his own. And I had enough on my plate right now then to spend unnecessary and needless energy stressing over Tristan Shade and a million what if's. So instead of heading over to his place with confrontation and demands, I came home.

To the quiet, empty and silence.

I'd put in a long day, to prolong the inevitable of facing my empty apartment, the last hour immersed in a late night conference call with Nishizawa. I was still circling the drain. Closer, but not quite there. After a solid week of burning the candle at both ends for most of the week I wanted nothing more than a large, chilled glass of something alcoholic right—a heavy-handed knock rattled the door at my back.

"F-cking hell." I cocked my wrist, read the time in the mother of pearl face. Almost midnight. Whatever—whoever it was, I wasn't in the mood. And yanked it open to say as much, when my breath and voice squeaked out in a gasp.

"Anthony?"

Bloodshot eyes lifted and he lurched forward, feet heavy. "Laura." With the forward momentum of his body came a rush of acrid booze. The sharp scent of malt coat my tongue in a slick, burning layer that made my eyes water. He pushed past me with a thrust of his shoulder, knocking me back a step.

"Changed the place," he said, words thick and slurred. His normally perfectly coifed dark hair was unwashed and longer then I'd ever seen it. His clothes had the distinctly rumpled look of a man who'd slept in it for a day. Or two, judging the underlying hint of body odor.

I glanced at him, shifted my attention to my door and wondered if I had enough strength in me to haul him back and throw him out. We were matched in height, and I knew I was strong for my size, thanks to my devoted and strict workout regimen. But alcohol and temper, both emanating from Anthony in gut roiling waves, could give him an edge.

 I turned to face him, but kept my door open behind me. I wasn't about to seal myself in a room with him, even if that room happened to be in my own home.

"What are you doing here, Anthony?" He swayed where he stood, a mast of a ship caught in some unseen, internal storm. Whipping around, he lanced me with

"Why haven't you been taking my calls?"

Calls? "I don't know what you're talking about," I said, edging slightly towards the end table by the door. If I could get to my purse. Find my phone, when he wasn't looking...

"Don't play with me, Laura. I've called you several times in the last two weeks. And your prissy fag assistant cuts off my balls. Shuts me out. I know you're avoiding me."

Paul, I thought with a flicker of remorse and guilt. Apparently I had a fair bit of atoning to do.

"Anthony," I said, keeping my voice calm, but not patronizing. Patronizing would only piss him off, and in this state who knew what he would be capable of. "You're a mess. Why don't you go home? I'll call you tomorrow and we can—"

"No, no I can't go back there. I'm losing everything, Laura. Everything." He launched into ground eating, pacing steps from kitchen to foyer and back. "The market has chewed me up, and shit me out on the streets. Caldwell fired me. Fired me! Can you believe it? My stocks plummeted. Nothings been the same, Laura, nothing, since we broke up."

He advanced on me, caught me with trembling hands locked above my elbows.

"But I can get it back." His fingers tightened and those whiskey soaked eyes lit with an excitement that veered a little too close to insane. "With you, I can get it all back."

The spike of my temper scored like a blowtorch along my last nerve. Here was the crux of it, I thought. Why he was here, why he was crawling back to me. Not out of love or regret or the sheer f-cking emotional desire to make amends, but because he needed something and I was the golden cash cow to magically right his f-cked up little world.

Well, to hell with that, and to hell with him. Furious, I wrenched my arms out of his grasp, the bite of his fingers lingering on my skin like a brand. "F-ck you."

"Laura."

"No," I side-stepped him when he reached for me again. "Get out, Anthony. We're finished. Over."  

"Is there someone else?" he edged closer, his voice an ominous thread. "Are you f-cking someone else?"

"You lost the right to give a shit the moment you shoved your cock into that sluts mouth." Anger was a dangerous thing, blinded by it or on the receiving end, and unfortunately I was facing both. That made me slow to react and I missed the shift a second too late.

Anthony's fist caught me across the left side of my face. Stars exploded behind my eyes, a dazzling white flash that stunned and shocked long enough for him to snag me around the waist and drag me down to the floor. And just when my vision cleared, he struck me again, an open handed slap that cracked through the center of my skull like lightening.

I couldn't breathe. He was on top of me I realized, dully. So heavy. Pinned underneath him, I bucked and heaved as bruising, angry hands groped and yanked and ripped. I fought to free my legs, trapped under the sheer weight him. My earlier estimations about size and strength flew out the window. For all my workouts, for all my training, a man carting around an extra thirty pounds in muscle clearly held the advantage.

"Get off me!" I screamed when his mouth swooped in to cover mine. His breath a fetid stink that made my stomach roil.

His hands found the flesh under the ruins of my shirt, groped greedily at my breasts, my arms wedged between our bellies.

"I'll show you," he panted, dropping one hand away to fumble at his belt. "I'll f-cking show you."

Moving that arm cost him and was all the wiggle room I needed. I jerked my left arm out and up; the sharp edge of my elbow caught him clean in the face. His head snapped back from the impact and I smelled the hot, spurt of blood. Actually smelled it. Saw the gush explode from him, a red ruin spreading across his face, and knew I'd broken his nose.

He rolled off of me onto the floor with an agonized moan, his hands cupped over the abused area, eyes wheeling; his skin a sickly white.

"F-cking b-tch," he panted. Bent at the waist, Anthony turned on his side and retched. Yellow vomit splattering on my hardwood floors. "Oh, you f-cling c#nt."

I staggered to my feet, holding the tattered mess of my blouse around me. Shaking, I was shaking so violently. My hands. My legs. I was sure the whole building must have vibrated from the force of my tremors alone.

The world around me spun and swayed, everything so bright. So terribly bright as Anthony rolled and rolled. Blood. So much blood. Who'd have thought a broken nose could...phone?

I should get my phone, I realized, dazed and lightheaded. Somewhere in the recess of my mind I knew what was happening. Shock. I was going into shock. In the distant haze I heard the wail of sirens, was sure I must have only imagined them until a uniformed officer burst in, gun drawn.

I think I laughed, actually laughed while another charged in, gathered me close. This one a woman, her voice a faded echo between my ears.

"...okay?" that voice said. "Are you okay?"

"Yes." I nodded. Oh, my heart. My heart galloped like a racehorse breaking from the pack. I hadn't noticed, but now that I did I put my hand over it, terrified that it might actually break through my breastplate and fall at my feet.

I didn't know I was sitting down until I was, the female officer using my throw blanket to drape around my shoulders. I looked over at Anthony, belly down with a cop's knee digging into his back, cuffs slapped on his wrists and murder in his eyes.

And all I cared to think about was how long it would take to scrubs his blood off my floor.

             *** 

Ten minutes later the world no longer pulsed and throbbed around me like a fresh wound, spilling itself out into sensory overload. I worked through my statement with the female officer, Keiser, was her name. A small little thing wearing the official blue and the shop worn expression of someone who'd worked the beat a long, long time.

When Tristan exploded into the room, a very sudden and surprising ball that had been lodged somewhere in my throat was miraculously gone and I could breathe, finally breathe, easier.

I don't know if I was particularly happy at this startling realization his presence evoked, but now wasn't the time I wanted to dissect.

"Excuse me, sir. Are you her husband? Boyfriend?" the male officer, Baxter, asked while Tristan rushed to my side. Tristan took the knee, his eyes searching my face, his hands soft on my thighs.

"She's mine," he said, our gazes holding for a second before he glanced up at the cop. "What happened?"

Both officers exchanged glances of their own before Keiser elected to explain. Tristan was quit throughout the clinical rendition, calm as I've ever seen him. But I was getting to know him better now, and noticed things I failed to see before. The way a flush crept up the sides of his neck, only the faintest trace, or the sharpening of his pupils, honing in like a wolf on prey. Or a threat.

Anthony, I realized, had no idea how lucky he was to be on route to lock-up.

"We've taken photos and documented her injuries, thankfully there aren't many. She's a bit shaken up," Baxter said, lifting his officer cap to scrape a hand over his inch short hair. "We think she should go to hospital but Ms. Pierce—"

"No, no hospital." I shook my head then winced as my brain rattled around against my skull. Smiling was a struggle when my eyes presently wanted to roll back into aching oblivion. But that's exactly what I did. I smiled.

"I'm fine," I said. "Really."

"We recommend someone keep an eye on her," Keiser explained, folding her thin, black notebook shut, tucking it back into its pocket on her impressive holster. "In case she's concussed."

"Right." Tristan rose. "Don't worry about a thing, officers. I promise I'll take good care of her." I let him handle walking them out, taking a moment to lean back and close my eyes.

"Hey." I don't know how long I'd had my eyes shut for, I might have even drifted off for a second because the brush of fingers across my brow made me jump.

"Easy." Sitting next to me, Tristan settled in close, his eyes working over my face for the millionth time. I could only imagine what I looked like. My hair a wild mess, face pale, eyes probably too wide, speckles of dried blood from Anthony felt tight on my skin.

 "Come on," Tristan said, skimming the pad of his thumb across my lower lip, stopping shy of the left corner where it stung brutally. "Let's get you cleaned up."