Declan does not take me straight back inside after we leave the garden, and instead he guides me past the ballroom doors and down the side path toward the parked cars, and the cool night air hits my face again while my cheek still throbs faintly under the skin.
He opens the passenger door and gestures for me to sit, and I do without arguing because I am suddenly more tired than I want to admit.
He crouches slightly in front of me and tilts his head, studying the swelling carefully in the dim light from the lanterns lining the driveway.
“It’s coming up,” he mutters, and there is anger sitting just under his calm tone.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, because that is easier than acknowledging anything else.
“You’re not,” he replies quietly, and his eyes flick briefly toward the ballroom
