She's quiet for a moment.
Processing.
"The man who?—"
"He's been handled. He's never going to hurt you again. Never going to hurt anyone again."
I don't tell her he's dead, don't tell her about the basement, the torture, the barbed wire.
Some things she doesn't need to carry.
"I'm going to shower," I say. "Then I'm coming to bed."
"Okay."
She doesn't ask more questions.
Trusts me to tell her what she needs to know.
Trusts me to protect her from what she doesn't.
I love her so fucking much.
The shower is scalding.
Hot enough to burn away the blood.
The sweat.
The memory of Ted Tomlinson's screams.
I stand under the spray until my skin is red.
Until I feel almost human again.
Then I dry off, pull on clean boxers, and climb into bed beside the woman I love.
She curls into me immediately.
Her head on my chest.
Her hand over my heart.
Her damaged arm still bandaged, her bruises still visible in the dim light, but she's alive.
She's here.
She's mine.
And the man who hurt her is dead.
"I have something for you," I murmur.
"Hmm?"
I reach over to the nightstand.
Grab the ring I set there before my shower.
