Some are dark and raw, their color muted by concealer, artfully applied, but there’s a new one, blooming like poisoned flowers around her throat. The sight makes my entire body freeze. My grip tightens, not on her, but on the rage that surges through me. I came too late. Too fucking late. I fucked up in Caracas. I should’ve moved sooner, planned faster. I thought I was being smart, strategic—what a fucking joke—I blunderedthe moment of surprise. While I was counting bullets and bodies and alliances, he was putting his hands on her.
Her! The woman I love more than anything on this earth, and she’s even more broken than she was hours earlier because I wasn’t there to stop it. There’s no comfort in her being safe now. Not when she had to suffer to get here. Not when every second of that agony is written across her skin in purples and reds.
She stirs in my arms. I'm mesmerized as her eyes flutter open. They're bleary, dazed, and unfocused one moment, and then they're sharp. Focusing straight on me.
She blinks once. Twice.
Realization crashes in.
She pushes against me, not hard, she's too weak for that, but enough to get the message across that she doesn't want to be in my arms. So I let her go. But it fuckinghurts. Even more when I watch her scoot away instantly, like I'm going to hurt her. The wayhedid. More rage against Roberto churns in my guts. What he did to her, to make her this afraid, is unforgivable, and I'll make him pay for a long time. He's going to die in utteragony.
She scoots all the way to the far end of the bench seat, where she wedges her body into the corner and pulls her knees to her chest, her arms wrapping around herself like a lifeline. She looks like a lost child. My heart cramps. Her gaze is downcast and her voice low, "Why am I here? What do you want from me?”
The words hit harder than a bullet because I don’t know how to answer her. Not really. I wasn't prepared for her fear. For her to recoil fromme. This is not how it was when I rescued her before. Not even close.
Do I say:I came for you?
Do I say:I’m sorry?
Do I say:I still love you so much it hurts to breathe?
None of it feels right. Especially since I never told her in the first place.
None of it feels like enough because I came too late. Years too late.
So I just sit there, staring at the woman I’d kill a thousand men for, and say the only thing that comes close, "To make sure he never touches you again."
She takes a ragged breath. It takes a moment before she looks up, but her eyes still won't meet mine. "Where are you taking me?"
That one is easy. "I have a house in the Catskills. You'll be safe there."
Her gaze turns down again. She doesn’t ask why or press for details. She doesn't speak at all. She just sits there like she's resigned to whatever fate will put her through next. She turns her face to the window, keeping her body curled into itself like she’s trying to disappear. The silence between us stretches, becoming thick and painful.
I sit there, letting my hands rest on my knees, afraid that even breathing too loudly might set her off again. I’ve killed men of all races and ages. I’ve stared down enemies twice my size and walked away the last one standing. But right now, in this SUV, I’ve never felt more powerless in my life.
The drive feels endless. Every second she spends pressed into that corner like she wants to crawl out of her own skin adds another stone to the weight already crushing my chest.
I stole her back from hell. And now I don’t even know if she wants to be saved.
By the time we pull up to the cabin, dusk has turned to full dark. The house rises from the trees like a ghost. All modern angles and quiet strength, tucked deep in the Catskills. I built it with glass and stone, but all I ever imagined inside it was warmth. Her laughter. Her light.
I can’t tell her that now. I can’t tell her I built this place for her.
She doesn’t ask whose house it is or how I can afford something like this. She just climbs out slowly after me, her steps dragging, her arms still wrapped around herself. Always a step behind. Always just out of reach.
It kills me.
I want to carry her inside. I want to wrap her in blankets and make the world go away. I want to rewind time and stop every bruise from ever happening.
But I can’t touch her.
Not now.
I lead the way up the stone steps, punching in the code at the side panel. The door unlocks with a soft click.
I turn to her. "Come in."
She hesitates, just for a second. Then follows.
