Page 59 of Mile High Ruin

Her hands are not. One is curled tightly into the fabric of her skirt, fingers clenched so hard that her knuckles have gone pale.

“You are not.”

“I’m a little shaken.”

“That is not the same thing as fine.”

“I’ll be all right.”

She says it with the same calm professionalism she used when she poured champagne on me, except there’s no spark behind it now, no stubborn challenge waiting to emerge if I press too hard.

I dislike that more than I expect.

I kneel in front of her.

Her eyes widen slightly.

I have spent most of my adult life making sure I’m never required to look up at anyone, and yet I lower myself deliberately so she doesn’t have to crane her neck to meet my eyes.

“Let me see your face.”

“I told you, it’s fine.”

“Sloane.”

Something in my voice makes her stop arguing.

I lift my hand and touch the side of her jaw as gently as I know how. The mark is already appearing. A flush of red spreads across her cheek, darker near the corner of her mouth, and there’s a tiny split inside her lower lip where her teeth must have caught the skin.

My anger returns so abruptly that my hand nearly tightens. I force it not to.

“Does your jaw hurt when you move it?”

“No.”

“Headache?”

“No.”

“Dizziness?”

“No.”

“Nausea?”

She gives me a look. “That question feels insulting considering I was almost assaulted.”

The answer surprises a laugh out of me. It’s brief, barely more than a breath, but it’s the first time she has sounded like herself since I found her.

She notices. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“I don’t have a concussion.”

“I didn’t ask you to diagnose yourself.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “I spent six years dealing with passengers who hit their heads during turbulence.” She shifts on the edge of the mattress and looks down at her hands.