Allyson's POV
Michael strode through the villa entrance ahead of me, his powerful frame rigid with barely contained fury. Every line of his body screamed tension.
"Michael," I called out softly.
He froze mid-step but refused to face me.
I hurried forward, my fingers finding his forearm. His skin burned beneath my touch, muscles coiled tight as steel cables. Gently, I coaxed him to turn around, watching as his jaw worked with suppressed emotion.
My breath caught. His beautiful face was a canvas of violence - purple bruises blooming across his cheekbone, a nasty gash above his eyebrow still weeping blood.
Without thinking, I lifted my hand toward the wound.
He recoiled like I'd struck him. The rejection hit me like a physical blow, spreading cold through my chest. Even now, he wouldn't accept my comfort.
