Cole came home wrong.
Not wrong the way he'd been wrong after Marco's restaurant — bruised knuckles, tight jaw, the operational aftermath of a man who'd removed a problem. This was different. The elevator doors opened and he was leaning against the wall with one hand pressed to his left side and his breathing was shallow and his face was the color of cement and the man who filled every room he entered looked like the room was holding him up.
"What happened?"
"Meeting went sideways." He stepped off the elevator and the step cost him something visible. A hitch in his stride. A controlled exhale that had nothing to do with composure and everything to do with not showing pain in front of a woman he was trying not to scare. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're holding your ribs."
"I'm aware of where my hand is."
