Her palms stay flat, and warm, and distracting against my abs as she tears into me with renewed ferocity now that she’s seen the marks. “I’m done talking about me. Let’s talk about you, Rhys. Let’s talk about the bruises. Let’s talk about the secrecy. Let’s talk about how the hell you’ve gotten to a place where you’ve convinced yourself you’d be such a great guardian for a three-year-old when you have the emotional intelligence of a rock and a penchant for something that is clearly violent. You are one big red flag, my friend. And I don’t think being raised by a full-time staff will fix the
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