OUR BROKEN BEGINNINGS

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I knew the moment I woke up that Emerson was no longer by my side. The bed was cold and empty. My body missed his touch instantly, but I tried to ignore it. I got up, brushed my teeth, and got dressed in an off-white set of loose-fitting pants and shirt. My hair was swept back into a ponytail with my curtain bangs out as per usual.

After I was finished getting ready for the day, I made my way to the kitchen and found it empty. There was only one other place I knew Emerson would be, so I made my way out the balcony doors and down the stairs toward the gym underneath the house. As I suspected, there was loud music coming from behind the closed door.

I turned the knob and opened the door slowly, not wanting to scare a concentrated Emerson. My breath hitched in my throat, and my mouth dried out. He was shirtless, glistening with sweat, throwing hard, relentless punches into a punching bag hanging from a beam. His arms pushed through the air in smooth and precise lines to hit his target with no mercy. I would be terrified if I were someone about to be punched by Emerson Hale.

He didn't notice me nor did he stop hitting that bag. I began to turn away, but then I noticed his hands. Emerson had punched his way through the wrapping around them, and his knuckles were raw if not bleeding. He didn't seem like he planned on stopping anytime soon by the way the muscles in his back didn't stop churning.

I swallowed and took a deep breath. I didn't want him to hurt himself, so I took a step forward. Then another and another until I was standing on the other side of the punching bag, right in front of his vision.

The moment I stepped in front of him, he stopped his assault on the punching bag—breathing heavily and eyes wide. His forehead had droplets of sweat, and the brown locks on his head were disheveled. Bags falling underneath his eyes told me that the nightmare he had last night was one of the ones that stick with you even after you've gone back to sleep. The kind you think about right as you wake up and takes you a while to forget.

I looked down and got a closer look at his hands. A few of his knuckles had indeed begun to bleed, and the others were close to looking the same. I looked up at him and met his intense eyes. He opened his mouth, but I spoke before he could.

My words were quiet and reserved, "You are hurt."

He looked down and turned his hands, observing them. "It's nothing really."

I raised my eyebrows and gave him a look that said: seriously? "You're bleeding."

He shrugged. "Only a little bit."

I tilted my head and touched his arm. "What's going on, Emerson? Is it the nightmare from last night?"

Any expression on his face dropped, and it became stone. "I don't want to talk about it."

His tone snapped something in me. I dropped any gentle sweetness in my voice and face and said to him. "Well, I don't want a husband with busted hands, so I'm gonna clean and wrap the cuts. Upstairs."

Pure delight shone in his eyes, and the smirk he wore annoyed me just as much as it turned me on. I led the way, not looking behind me to see if he followed. I knew he did. When we made it upstairs, I told him to take a seat at the island, so I could get my first aid kit.

I grabbed the kit and returned to Emerson, taking the original boxing wrapping off his hands. They were swollen, and each knuckle was either rubbed raw or bleeding. No words left me as I finished up the job of unwrapping his hands and assessing the damage.

I quickly went to work cleaning the wounds that had opened and placing a healing ointment on each knuckle. I could feel Emerson staring at me the entire time—observing me in that way of his.