Too quiet.
Except for the soft splash of water in a small bowl and the rustle of gauze being unwrapped with trembling hands.
My hands? No.
His.
Atlas kneels in front of me like a warrior worshiping his wounded queen. His shirt is torn, chest bloodied—not all of it his uncle’s.
His eyes flicker up to mine with each pass of the cloth over my skin.
Gentle. Reverent.
Like I’m breakable.
Like I matter.
And I hate that I flinch when he touches my face, even though I know he’d never hurt me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, wincing as he wipes the dried blood from my temple.
“You don’t ever apologize to me,” he says roughly.
His voice is wrecked.
Like he’s been screaming, maybe inside, maybe out.
“Not for this.”
I nod because I don’t have the energy to fight him. Not tonight.
My whole body aches.
My wrists are raw from the zip ties, and my legs are shaking, even sitting on this soft bed.
But it’s the silence that scares me the most.
Not his.
Mine.
Because I should be crying, or screaming, or hurling things across this room, but instead—I’m just numb.
“My parents?” I ask because I have to know, but I’m too tired, too raw, to speak to them just yet.
“Your father landed shortly after we left. He’s pissed, but he’s overseeing cleanup. Your mother knows you’re safe.”
I nod, offering him a small smile. He returns it until his fingers brush a bruise on my ribs, and I gasp.
“Fuck, I’m sorry. Do you want the doctor?”
I know there’s one on board the plane. He had the man brought with us. But I shake my head.
I’m through with having strange men touch me for right now.
“I have to see if he broke the ribs, okay?”
“Okay.” I nod and brace myself.
