Her eyes don’t leave me. "Whose is it?"
I shake my head. "You don’t want to know."
For a heartbeat, something flickers in her expression. It’s her, the girl from the dance club all those years ago. Three years, I realize. Three years since I pulled her out of that alley, defiant even when she was staring down death.
But then it’s gone, swallowed up by whatever’s left of her after Roberto.
Her brows draw together, a faint crease forming between them. "Is that from… last night?" She’s working it out in her head, trying to line up the pieces, the timing.
I let out a slow breath, the kind meant to keep me from snapping, not at her, never at her, but at the memory of what I saw in that house. "It’s the blood of the people who let you be abused in that place," I tell her, leaving no room for her to doubt it. "The ones who knew and did nothing."
She pales; my words hit her harder than I intended, but I don’t look away. I’m not ashamed of the bloodbath I left behind. If anything, I wish I could bring them all back to life to kill them again.
"Pacco?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
I nod once.
"Lennard?"
Another nod.
"Louisa?"
"She’s gone," I say flatly. "They’re all gone. Nobody will ever hurt you again."
Her lips part, and she hesitates on the name. "Roberto?"
"He won’t ever touch you again," I tell her, my voice drops even lower. "But he’s not dead." My hands curl into fists at my sides, the urge to finish it now burning through me all over again. "Not yet."
Her eyes search mine, like she’s not sure whether to be afraid or relieved.
"I’ll make that bastard pay," I swear to her, each word a promise carved in stone.
I'm not sure how to interpret the look she gives me, but before I can say anything else, Lexy boxes me in the kidney. "Shower, boss, now. Frankly, you reek."
I huff out a short laugh, more of a growl than anything, and glance back at Sophia. I try for an apologetic smirk, but it feels wrong on my face. Too much blood between here and the last time I smiled for real.
She doesn’t smile back. She’s still watching me like she’s trying to figure out what I am. Protector? Killer? Something in between?
"I’ll be quick," I tell her, keeping my voice low, not sure if I’m promising or warning her. Her gaze flickers to the red stains on my shirt, then back to my eyes. There’s no judgment there, just that unreadable quiet she’s worn like armor since I got her out.
I turn toward the stairs. Lexy shadows me a step behind, but halfway up, I glance back over my shoulder. Sophia’s still in the same spot, watching Lexy and me.
"How is she?" I ask as soon as we're out of earshot.
Lexy snorts softly. "Like a stray cat you’re trying to coax inside. Hungry, skittish, and ready to bolt if you move too fast."
That’s exactly what I expected, but it still makes my chest tighten.
"She talk to you?"
"A little. Enough to know she likes her coffee sweeter and more loaded than even I do." Lexy pauses, then adds, "She didn’t flinch when I sat next to her. And she let me fix her hair. That’s something."
I grunt, not trusting myself to say more. It’s not enough, but it’s a start.
Upstairs, I push into my room and head straight for the bathroom. The image in the mirror hits me first. Blood is splattered across my cheek, a streak of it drying at my temple. My shirt is stiff with it, dark stains down my forearms. I look exactly like what I am.
A man who’s killed.
