I slapped Ashton's hand before he could reach his phone.
"Okay, no. Let the cops handle it. You've already gone full Godfather once tonight."
I wasn't saying I didn't want Rhys to suffer.
I did.
I just wasn't willing to risk Ashton catching a charge for it.
When they dragged him off, Rhys already looked half-dead—blood all over his mouth, shirt soaked like something out of a bad crime doc.
"Rhys isn't worth going to prison for," I told Ashton, in case he misunderstood.
He exhaled heavily. "Fine. I'll leave the police to handle it. How's your wrist?"
I rotated my wrist and winced. Damn Rhys and his gym strength.
I didn't say anything, but Ashton saw the sweat beading at my temple.
"Right. Hospital. Now."
I grumbled, "It's not that bad. I'll live. It's late
