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Axell opened my door, placing his hand on my head to nudge me in. The moment I slid inside, Manic flung his own door open, climbed in beside me and slammed it shut—shaking the windows. He flexed his hand, residual blood from Grave coating his knuckles.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

All I could manage was a weak nod.

My breathing cut short, and as the car took off, my knees bounced, a slight tremble engulfing my hands while I stared out the windows. My shoulders curled around themselves as everything settled.

When Manic reached over and squeezed my knee, an involuntary exhale slipped past my lips, a comforting warmth traveling up my leg. Comfort wasn’t what I should be feeling right now.

My brows creased.

I opened my mouth, then closed it, unable to form the questions clawing at me. I opened my mouth again, but still, no words rushed out. Shit.

Regardless of how much I tried, I couldn’t picture Manic as my admirer. To me, they were two completely different individuals. One was a man who’d kept me company for years, learning the intricate details of my life. The other was my kidnapper—a man who hated me. Or so I thought.

But that wasn’t true anymore, was it? My admirer knew me better than anyone, and I was staring at him.

God, why was this so hard?

As I grasped at those questions, a sudden pain lanced behind my eyes. I winced and lifted a shaky hand to the underside of my earlobe. My entire left side of my head throbbed, pressure beating against my ear so fiercely, my vision blurred at the edges. The adrenaline must have finally eased.

“How is your ear?” Manic inquired.

Before I could muster a response, he gripped my face and pivoted me toward him, angling my head to the side. I winced again as pain pulsed along my neck. He growled quietly, brows lowering as he touched the sensitive area.

His fingers trembled slightly, as though he were fighting his own rush of adrenaline. He pulled his hand back and rubbed his fingers together, coated in what appeared to be my blood. I released a shaky breath as he stared at my injury—so focused, I was afraid to even blink.

“The gunshot must have damaged your eardrum,” he said, his eyes flicking to mine. “I’ll have someone meet us at the penthouse to look at you.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You will get it looked at,” he said in finality, leaving no room for argument.

His tone was harsher than usual, so I said nothing. After a long moment, Manic sighed and dropped his head between us, so all I saw were the tops of his lashes. His hand settled along the crook of my neck.

Another silent minute went by, like we were both too stunned to breathe a word. I wasn’t sure where to start, because he looked like he was on the verge of snapping or collapsing. I just didn’t know which. Still, I wanted answers.

“Manic,” I whispered, determined to ask.

Unable to take that thrum of silence, I placed my palm on his cheek. He leaned into me, another quiet sigh escaping him, and the questions immediately died on my tongue. Again.

God, I was a coward.

I mirrored the wrinkle forming between his brows as he refused to look at me, though mine was pinched with confusion rather than the worry etched into his. Did he feel guilty? Was it possible for him to feel such a thing?

“Why?” I whispered. “Why did you kill him for me?”

Lamplight swept over the windshield as Axell sped down the streets, the outside air a steady hum against the glass. I swiped my thumb over Manic’s cheekbone, waiting. When Manic finally lifted his eyes, a swirl of violence settled in them.

“Because no one touches you and gets away with it,” he said.

My heart tripped over itself. I opened my mouth to reply, to say literally anything, but then Manic’s phone rang.

“Shit,” he mumbled and pulled away.

As soon as the phone sat flush against his ear, Ronan’s bellowing filtered through the car. I held my breath, waiting for Manic to explode, but it never came.

“I know,” Manic said calmly.