My eyes fly open. Ward is leaning over me, concern marking his face. In the background, the TV is still going.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't realize you were asleep."

"It's fine," I force myself to smile. How many times have I said that today? I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine.

I sit up, remembering too late that I'm only wearing a towel. Ward's seen me naked a dozen times before, but for some reason, my bareness makes me feel more exposed tonight.

"Lie down," he tells me gently. "It's okay. I have something for you."

I obey, but mostly because I'm too exhausted to do anything else. Part of me-a larger part than I want to admit-is almost sick with relief that he's come back to me. The rest of me is ashamed of myself. Maybe one day I'll be strong enough to do the right thing and send him away. Tonight, he's here.

I close my eyes and take another deep breath. The mattress sinks slightly as he sits on the bed beside me.

"This will be cold," he warns me. "But it'll help with the swelling." I hear the clink of ice, then feel the frosty burn of an ice pack against my cheek.

I gasp at the sting. Ward pulls the ice away, but I open my eyes and catch his gaze.

"I'm okay," I tell him. "It just startled me."

He nods and presses the ice pack against my face again. This time, I'm prepared. It still burns, but I keep my eyes locked on Ward.

He's watching me closely. Probably making sure he's not hurting me. His eyes are full of worry. But there's something else there, too-a calm. A steadiness. This is why he left, I realize. He needed to do something to make this better, something to help ease his guilt.

He doesn't say anything. But he holds the ice pack against my face with one hand and uses the other to push my damp hair away from my forehead. His fingers stay tangled in the strands, and his thumb brushes back and forth across my temple.

I close my eyes again. All of my good sense flies out the window when he touches me like that, when the pads of his fingers drift across my skin like I'm some beautiful thing to be explored and cherished. My nerves find new life under his hands, and every stroke of his thumb seems to tug directly on my heart. My pulse quickens. Even the pain of my swollen cheek seems to fade in comparison to the other strong and sudden reactions of my body.

His hands are rough with years of callouses, but his touch is tender. It's the touch of a man who longs to protect me, a man who longs to take away my pain.

When I open my eyes once more, he's still staring down at me. And there are still shadows in his eyes.

I reach up and slide my hands around his neck. He doesn't resist when I pull his face down to meet mine, but his lips are tentative against my own, like he's afraid he'll break me.

The next time I kiss him, I'm not as gentle. And I let my tongue slip into his mouth to tease his. I bite down on his lips. And there it is-a response. His lips press more firmly against mine, and then he's grabbing me.

But he only kisses me for a moment before he pulls back again. His face hovers just above mine, close enough that it's hard to see into his eyes.

"I don't want to hurt you," he whispers.

"You won't hurt me," I say. "And if I remember correctly, you had no problem doing all sorts of things with me when you were hurt." He had far more than a black eye after that fight in the spa at Huntington Manor, and that didn't stop us from enjoying each other.

I draw his face back down, and this time he reacts with a hunger-until he pulls back again.

"That was different," he says, slightly breathless.

"Because I'm a girl?"

He shakes his head, but he's already set the ice pack aside. His hand moves to the exposed skin of my shoulder.

"It's different because it's you. Because I've never given a f.u.c.k if I was hurt. But you..."

A sudden, horrible thought occurs to me.

"What about you?" I say. "Were you hurt today?"

My eyes scan his face, his arms, anywhere I can see his skin. How could I be so self-centered? So heartless? I was. .h.i.t once today. Ward was pummeled dozens of times. And thrown against newspaper racks. He might not have a black eye or any open wounds, but that doesn't mean he wasn't hurt.

"I'm okay," he a.s.sures me. "I've had a lot worse."

But I'm not going to let him brush off the question like that. I sit up-making sure to clutch the towel across my chest-and stare him down.

"I want to see," I say.

At first I think he's going to refuse, but then he sits back. Slowly, he pulls off his shirt.

There are bruises all over his chest. None as large or as puffy as the one on my face, but that doesn't matter. I'm sure they hurt just as much.

"It's nothing bad," he insists.

Yeah, right. There are several bruises right across his ribs, and I reach out and touch one. Softly, of course, but he still winces. I look up at him.

"You can't tell me they don't hurt," I say.

I rise to my knees and grab his shoulder, making him turn so I can see his back. It's just as bad.

"Geez," I say. "You're solid purple."

"It's not that bad."

"Don't go all 'tough guy' on me. I have eyes." I reach out to touch another one to prove my point, but he catches my hand.

"What's with you and poking at bruises? I seem to remember you poking at my black eye, back when I had one."

"I remember kissing your black eye." I look up at him. "Did that make it better or worse?"

He raises my hand to his lips.

"Better," he murmurs against my fingers.

I lean forward and press my lips against one of the bruises on his chest.

"Much better," he says, releasing my hand.

I smile to myself and brush my mouth against a second bruise. Then a third. I work my way carefully across his chest, leaving no patch of purple skin unkissed. Ward's hands come up and clutch my arms, but his grip isn't possessive or demanding. His thumbs slide against my skin.

I have to bend over to reach the bruises on his stomach, and when I do, my towel falls open. I let it. My lips touch the taut skin across his abs, flitting from injury to injury. When I reach the trail of dark auburn hair leading down into his jeans, I sit up again.

"Turn around," I say. "I want to kiss the ones on your back."

But he gives a single shake of his head. "It's my turn."

His arm slips around my waist and he leans forward, helping me down onto the sheets. When I'm on my back, he grabs the towel from beneath me and tosses it aside. His hands slide up over my body, and his touch is so light that I wonder if I'm only imagining his fingers against my skin. He leans over me, bending down until his mouth is just over the bruise on my cheek.

Even the slight pressure of his breath against my skin stings a little. But I want nothing more than to feel his lips against my cheek, feel his kiss against the ugly purple bruise that has caused so much pain and confusion for us.

And when he does let his mouth graze my skin, it brings both throbbing pain and a sense of joy. He moves across my swollen cheek from one end to the other, caressing it with his lips, and it's like he's kissing every fear, every doubt away.

My whole face is tingling when he finally draws away. He doesn't go far. He follows a path down my neck, kissing the length of my throat and continuing across my chest. And he doesn't stop there. Only when he reaches the crest between my legs do I sit up and gently push him off of me.

"I'm not done with you yet," I tell him.

His eyes are already glazed with desire, so he doesn't protest as I turn him around. Sometimes I don't think he understands that I get as much pleasure out of exploring his body as I do from letting him explore mine. I'm not about to let him go until I've touched every bruise on his body with my lips. Until I've kissed away his pain as he's kissed away mine. I'm not the only one who suffered today. I refuse to forget that.

This time I move even more slowly than before, taking care to caress every patch of discolored skin with my mouth. Each kiss is an apology and an endearment, a whisper of affection and a brush of hope. My fingers move after my lips, marking the bruises one by one, until I reach his lower back and there's nowhere else to go.

I reach around him and undo his jeans. Together, we slide them off his body.

There are bruises on his legs, too. Not as many as on the rest of him, but I have plenty of work to do. Wordlessly, I push him back on the pillows. And then I move down his legs, ensuring that every bit of injured skin comes under my examination.

I'm kissing a small scab near his ankle when he sits up and tugs me back on top of him. I go gladly, melting into his arms. I lay my unbruised cheek against his neck and let my breath fall into rhythm with his. My whole body rises and falls with his chest.

"They're gone now," I whisper after a moment. "All of them." He has thirty-seven bruises. I counted them as I kissed them. Some are as small as my thumbnail, but at least one on his back is almost the size of my fist. Thirty-seven bruises. From a fight that only started because he was trying to protect me.

And tonight, I'm going to repay every one.

CHAPTER SIX.

"Your pick," I say, nudging the atlas in Ward's direction.

We're sitting in the car, our book of maps propped up against the dashboard. Ward rubs his chin as he studies the network of roads on the page.

"I say we follow the highway into Delaware," he says. "Then New Jersey. We'll hit Pennsylvania on the way to New York."

We crossed over into Maryland this morning. We decided to skirt Washington D.C.-given the state of my face, it seemed like a good idea to avoid large cities. Ward's purchases last night also included some makeup and a pair of over-sized sungla.s.ses for me, but neither is particularly successful at hiding the fact that the entire left side of my face is black and blue.

"Sounds like a plan to me," I say, sliding the sungla.s.ses up onto the top of my head and studying the map. "They don't look that far apart. Think we can hit them all today?"

He nods. "Honestly, I'm guessing it's probably only about four hours from here to New York City. But that's a.s.suming we don't have any, uh, side trips." His mouth tilts up deliciously at that last bit, and heat rushes between my legs.

After yesterday, I'm thrilled that things seem more or less back to normal between us. I still catch shadows in Ward's eyes every now and then-when he doesn't realize I can see him looking at my puffy, purple face-but at least we're speaking again.

I let myself study him as he pulls onto the highway again. Now that he's calm, he seems perfectly in his element-bobbing his head to the radio, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time to some guitar riff blasting out of the speakers. His left elbow is hanging out the window. I've never thought of cars as being particularly s.e.xy-even the sleek, expensive ones that my father and brother used to have-but there's something about this picture that makes me hum in all the right places.

I've offered to take a turn driving. But even if Ward let me handle Ol' Stella (as he affectionately calls her)-which he doesn't-I prefer to watch him. To drink in the way the sun brightens his skin, or the way the muscles in his arms flex when his hand's on the wheel.

Maybe I'm wrong, thinking Ward should go back to Huntington Manor. Maybe he belongs on the road.

I roll down my window and let the wind lap at my face and hair. The scenery outside is a glorious blur, and there's something comforting about the whir of car engines all around us. It's hard to believe that I'm a wanted woman, that even now the cops might be after me.

Or maybe it's the opposite-that knowing how easily all of this might end makes it all that much more thrilling. I've visited many places, all over the world, and yet I've never once been on a traditional road trip. I'm not sure I ever understood why people would want to spend days in a car when a flight took a fraction of the time.

"Have you ever done this before?" I ask Ward. "Been on a trip like this, I mean?"

"On a s.e.x trip?"

I give a little groan. "You know what I mean."

He grins. "Nothing quite this... ambitious. But when I was a teenager, my friend Craig and I skipped school to drive to Indianapolis. Apparently, he knew some girls who went to college there."

I smile. "Older women, huh? I had no idea."

"They could buy us beer. And take us to sorority parties. I was sixteen. I wasn't about to turn that down."

I laugh. "How did it go?"

"We took turns driving. Craig swore he knew a shortcut down some back roads, but that dumba.s.s ended up getting us lost. We drove around for hours trying to find the highway again, and both of us were too stupid to stop and ask for directions."

I let my fingers hang out the window. "So what happened?"

"Well, we never made it to Indianapolis, if that's what you mean. But once we gave up on that idea, we were free to do whatever we wanted. We stopped at this roadside stand and bought these sketchy-looking meat pies for dinner. We bought a bottle of bootleg moonshine from this man with a beard down to his waist. We tried to go cow-tipping, but we got caught and chased off the property. My leg got caught climbing over the fence and I almost broke my d.a.m.n ankle."

He taps his fingers against the wheel and shakes his head, amus.e.m.e.nt dancing across his face.

"It was my first real trip, my first time more or less on my own. My mom was p.i.s.sed."

"She didn't know you were going?"

"Of course not. I was trying to get laid by some college girls. She never would've let me go. I was hoping she'd go right to bed when she got home from her shift and never notice I wasn't home. But moms always seem to have a sense for when their kids are up to no good." He gives a little laugh.

Ward's talked to me about his mom before, but only a handful of times, and almost always in sadness. Her life was hard after Edward Carolson abandoned her, and it's only been a few short years since she lost the battle with cancer. It's clear Ward loves her very much-he even has her name, Mona Catherine, tattooed on his arm-and it touches me, seeing him remember some of the lighter times.

A song Ward likes comes on the radio, and he turns it up. His fingers tap tap burra-tap against the wheel in time with the beat. But it's only on the second chorus when he turns it down again.

"What about you?" he asks. "Ever been on a road trip?"

I shake my head. "That wasn't exactly my family's style."

"You guys were more about the yachts and the luxury hotels?"

I know it's not meant to be a dig, but all the same, his words sting slightly. I've been trying to escape that life for years now, trying to convince myself that I was something more than the money and the privilege.

Ward seems to realize he's said the wrong thing. "I didn't mean-"