In the fluorescent light of the motel, I see a bruised cheekbone. Black eye. A busted lip. Rage courses through me, swift, blinding. “Who did this, Dakota?” I demand, fighting to keep my voice controlled even as my breath comes out in ragged pants. “Who. The fuck. Did this?” Her eyes flutter closed. “Davis, don’t—” “Cupcake, I’m gonna need you to shut that pretty mouth and let me hold you.”
