Catch Me When I Fall (Falling Stars 2)

“Out.” It was a growl. He was lucky I didn’t spew fire with it. My gaze jumped around the room. “All of you, out. Now. It wasn’t an invitation.”

It reverberated around the room. Hard. Rough.

I knew I was a second from completely losing it in front of them. From sweeping her up and holding her and wiping all those fucking tears from that gorgeous face.

“I’ve got her, Reilly. Back off,” Richard said, anger riding out the confusion.

“I’m not fighting with you right now, Richard. Get out. We’ll deal with this later.”

He wanted to throw blows.

Fucking fine.

As far as I was concerned, the asshole deserved to get his ass beat.

But not right then. Not when Emily needed me.

Suspicion oozed from him as he glared at me. I glared right back, pretty sure my teeth were grinding to powder with the amount of restraint it took me not to physically toss him out.

Finally, he let his focus drift to Emily. “Em?” he softly asked.

“Please . . . go,” she whimpered, still holding herself around her middle, and there wasn’t a fucking thing I could do but wrap an arm around that same place like I could hold her together.

Support her.

Keep her from dropping to her knees.

Relief.

It exploded in the middle of me at the barest contact. Hers and mine. Hers and mine.

I stood at her side, guarding, watching everyone as they slowly backed away. Each of them watched us like they had no clue what was going down.

All of them except for Melanie, who looked like she didn’t know whether to thank me or go find that machete.

Finally, they relented, reluctance in their demeanors as they filtered out the door. Richard cast one long glance over his shoulder before he gave in and stepped out, letting the door slam closed behind him.

In a beat, I had Emily in both my arms, hugging her tight against my chest.

A sob burst from her throat.

“Royce.”

“Shh . . . baby . . . shh.” My hand was in her hair, the other wrapped around her as I carried her over to the couch. I sat her down on the edge of it. She crumpled forward, and I knelt in front of her, pressing my mouth to her forehead. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you.”

He would die before he ever touched her again.

Emily hiccupped, gasping for breath. “I thought I could do this, Royce. I want to. But I can’t. I can’t.”

I brushed back her hair, trying to get her to look at me. “It’s okay. It’s okay. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Maybe I was signing it all away. My own efforts. The end game.

Right then, I didn’t fucking care.

A frown tugged so hard across her face, her features distorted with pain. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me Mr. Fitzgerald was gonna spring this on us? He said I had a month. A month to decide.”

“I didn’t know, baby. I didn’t know.”

“Isn’t it your job to know?”

“I didn’t. I swear to you.”

I edged her back, holding her by either side of the face, forcing her to look at me. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you. I promise you that.”

She looked over at the flowers, expression grim when she turned her gaze back to me, her entire face soaked with the tears that wouldn’t stop streaming down her face. “Do you know Cory Douglas?”

Terror ridged her question, and I knew she was opening up to me in a way that she hadn’t opened up to anyone.

She was offering a piece of herself.

Asking me to hold it.

Not to crush it.

My soul raged, my chest close to caving, hatred carved into my response. “Yes. His band is signed with Mylton Records.”

I left out the rest.

A shudder ripped through her body. “We . . . we toured with them at the end of last year. Opened for them in a few cities.”

She stumbled over the words. Sheer terror blazed in her green eyes.

I wanted to commit murder.

Wished that I had.

My nod was cutting. “I was aware of that.”

Blinking through her tears, she averted her gaze, and I couldn’t do anything but take her by the chin, my voice so soft when I whispered, “Emily.”

For a moment, we stared, tied in this intrinsic way that I didn’t come close to understanding.

“He’s not a good man, Royce,” she rasped, the words barely there but so loud I heard them bang in my soul.

“I know, sweet girl, I know.”

He was a sick, twisted bastard.

“I . . .” she started.

“You can tell me,” I told her.

Terror ridged through her features, and she gave a small shake of her head. “I’m not sure that I can.”

It burned on my tongue. The confession. But where would that leave any of us?