Free Broken by Shiloh Walker Page A

ground. He heard Theresa call out his name, but he ignored her. He needed to get inside. Needed to be alone. Needed to climb into a scalding hot shower and scrub the blood away. Scrub away the blood, and then maybe drink away the memory.
    “No. Can’t do that.” He rubbed the back of his hand over his dry mouth. Couldn’t drink the memory away—that was how he’d started that slide down the last time, using alcohol to numb the pain. He’d just have to take it.
    Have to live with it.
    As he jogged down the stairs, the phone on his belt started to ring and vibrate. He grabbed it, just barely resisted the urge to crush it into the ground under his heel.
    It was Luke. He didn’t bother answering. He didn’t want to talk to anybody , including his twin. Not right now.
    As he pushed his key into the lock, he used his other hand to flip the phone open and turn it off.
    There. Now nobody could call. Alone. He could be alone.
    His hand shook as he tried to unlock the door. Shaking too bad. Gut felt like ice. Acid burned its way up his throat. Shaking. Cold. Fuck. Inside. Get inside .
    “Quinn?”
    He froze as Sara said his name.
    Squeezing his eyes closed, he gave the key one last desperate twist and, thank God, it unlocked. Without glancing up the steps, without even answering, he pushed the door open.
    Blood roared in his ears as he started inside.
    A hand touched his shoulder.
    He reacted blindly and until he had her body trapped between his and the brick wall of the stairwell, he hadn’t even realized he’d moved. Now he found himself staring at Sara Davis, her dark brown eyes wide and locked on his. She gasped, a soft, pained sound, and Quinn jerked back from her, letting her go so suddenly, she stumbled.
    “What the hell is the matter with . . .” she started to demand, cradling her wrist to her chest. Then her words trailed off and she stared at him. “Quinn?”
    Quinn wasn’t looking at her face. He was staring at her wrist. It was red, vibrant, angry, and red already; it looked like a bruise was forming.
    A bruise . . . he’d put a bruise on her. He’d hurt her—
    The shaking got worse. His vision tunneled down until the only thing he could see was that mark, so ugly against her soft white skin. A harsh, rasping sound hit his ears, and he realized he was gasping for breath, all but sobbing.
    Tearing his eyes away from the mark he’d put on her, he looked into her eyes and snarled, “Get the fuck away from me.”

    THE door slammed shut in her face.
    Part of her wanted to be pissed off.
    Part of her was scared, even though she didn’t want to be.
    But there was an even larger part of her that wanted to cry.
    God, his eyes . . . The look in his eyes wasn’t one she ever would have expected to see from him. Desperation. Fear. Pain. Fury. Shock. His pupils had been mere pinpricks, and the hand gripping her wrist had been cold, clammy with sweat. And shaking . . . he’d been shaking.
    Compassion, concern rose within her. She wanted to knock, wanted to follow him inside and learn what had put him in that state. Soothe it. Fix it.
    But even though she usually sucked at doing the wise thing, self-preservation wouldn’t let her do what she wanted to. She’d just looked into the eyes of a man on the edge, and she wasn’t going to push him over.
    She scrubbed her hands over her face and sagged back against the door. “I should have moved. The minute I looked at him, I should have just disappeared.”
    It had been two weeks since she’d moved into the little apartment on the third floor of Theresa’s house. Two weeks of peace and quiet, the nights uninterrupted by shouts or sirens. Two weeks in which she’d only caught the occasional glimpse of her sexy neighbor.
    Wounded warrior. She remembered thinking that the very first time she’d seen him, thinking it, then dismissing it because it didn’t go with the man. Except she’d been wrong.
    He was a wounded warrior and that blunt, gruff exterior, those