“She’s covering bruises,” Lisa said quietly, her voice barely a whisper. “I saw them when I stopped by her apartment yesterday. Finger marks on her upper arm.”
Shane’s knuckles whitened around his fork.
“She denied it,” Lisa’s voice cracked. “Said she bumped into a door frame during a workout. Shane, I’ve seen enough domestic violence victims to know the difference between an accident and an assault.”
The old warrior in Shane wanted to drive to Dustin’s gym right then and there. But fifteen years of tactical training had taught him patience.
You didn’t win fights by charging in blind. You gathered intelligence. You waited for the right moment. You struck when your enemy’s guard was down.
“I’ll handle it,” Shane said, his voice a low growl.
“Legally, Shane. Promise me.”
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