My voice was low. I had to force the words out through clenched teeth. Marcus put both hands up in a deflecting manner. He didn’t bow his head. He was too alpha, too dominant, too predator for that, but both empty hands were raised. I stared at the smooth caramel skin of his palms. No calluses marred their surface. No blood dried in the creases of them. The cuffs of a rich linen shirt sat on his wrists. The cloth was a pale cream unstained with gore that contrasted nicely with his dark skin tone. Slick, shiny black onyx cufflinks held their edges together. Opening my fist, I looked down at the contrast. My hand was almost black with grime—a mix of dirt, gunpowder residue, and dried blood. It obscured the tattoo across the back of my hand, dulling the colors, making my daughter’s name unreadable. The knuckle of my thumb was split deep, not bleeding but glaring reddish pink as it opened up. When it healed, it would add to the web of scar tissue that spread across all my knuckles, building them thick and tough.
