Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 72

It was only a few steps, but each one felt impossibly slow and heavy.

Bennett’s whole body was strung tight, like a bow pulled to its breaking point. Every movement tugged at the wound on his left hand, sending sharp, tearing pain through him. His breathing grew ragged, and cold sweat trickled steadily down his temple.

Gwyneth could feel the tension in his body and the barely contained tremors. She held her breath, moving with extreme caution as if she were carrying a priceless, fragile vase that could shatter at the slightest jolt.

At last, they made it to the bathroom door.

Out of habit, she started to follow him in, her arm still wrapped firmly around his waist, ready to guide him all the way to the toilet just as she had done before.

But the moment her foot crossed the threshold—

Bang!

The door snapped shut—not violently, but with a clarity that left no room for misunderstanding.

Gwyneth was left standing outside, stunned by the abruptness of it all.

“Why did you close the door?!”

Her voice came out flustered and indignant as she instinctively reached up to knock, confusion and a hint of wounded pride woven into her tone. “I’m trying to help! How are you supposed to manage one-handed? What if you fall?”

Silence. Complete and absolute.

Several seconds crawled by before Bennett’s voice finally emerged from inside—a low, hoarse growl, each word squeezed out through clenched teeth, heavy with pain and some fierce, unfamiliar emotion:

“Gwyneth.”

Her name landed against the door like a weight, reverberating with mortification and a barely suppressed explosion of frustration. There was so much humiliation and exasperation in those three syllables it was almost palpable.

“My hand’s injured. I’m not helpless.”

Gwyneth stood there, speechless.

Her hand froze midair, hovering just inches from the door.

The rush of anxiety and assumed responsibility that had driven her just moments before ebbed away in an instant, leaving only the cold, exposed embarrassment in its wake.

Gwyneth was still pressed against the wall, her cheeks flushed a fierce, burning red that crept all the way down her slender neck. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, her eyes darting everywhere but his face.

She looked nothing like the cool, composed Gwyneth she usually was—more like a little girl caught doing something terribly embarrassing.

Bennett’s eyes lingered on her scarlet cheeks and evasive gaze for a moment.

The hard line of his lips seemed to soften almost imperceptibly, the last traces of his own irritation and embarrassment giving way to something else—something weary and almost helpless.

“Help me back.”

It was like a pardon. Gwyneth’s head snapped up, her eyes still panicked but her movements swift and eager.

She didn’t calm down until they made it back to the couch. Her heart was still thumping wildly, a strange fluttering she couldn’t name.

She remembered the way he’d risked everything to save her, and the cold, ruthless look in his eyes the first time they met.

Bennett, who are you, really?