“Do you want to clean up?” he asked softly, his voice an anchor in the storm of my shame and fear.
When he lifted a hand to touch my face, I shook my head, voice a broken whisper. “No… I… I’m filthy.” I shouldn’t have let Voodoo touch me.
“Filthy,” he echoed, carefully, almost like testing the word against the room, against me. This time, he reached for my hand. “Grace.”
I flinched, yanking it back. “Don’t touch me. I’m… I’m disgusting.”
Bones didn’t pull away. Instead, he tilted his head, still calm, still unflinching. “You’re alive. That’s what matters.” His voice didn’t scold. It didn’t pity. It simply… held. I could feel the warmth of his hand hovering near mine, patient, steadying, as if just being in contact might anchor me back to myself.
“I… I—” I swallowed, the words catching in my throat, my trembling redoubling. My knees drew up instinctively, hiding, curling in on myself.
I let my breath hitch, a single tremor rippling through me, and my hands rose to rest atop his, letting the warmth of both anchor me even as the humiliation and the shaking surged. Bones’ thumb brushed against my knuckles, methodical, steady, and I realized I was clinging to it—not just for support, but because it reminded me I hadn’t failed completely. I hadn’t been broken, not entirely.
I wasn’t back in that warehouse. I wasn’t chained, gasping for air, unable to protect myself. I wasn’t there at all.
“You’re safe now,” Bones said, low and even. “No one can hurt you here. Not while I’m standing.”
I wanted to believe him, wanted to stop trembling, wanted the room to stop spinning and the nausea to fade. But I let myself stay there, huddled, fragile, and alive. I couldn’t see Ignacio, Bones blocked my view of him.
“Do you need to clear the house?” I asked, my voice still small, unsure.
Bones shook his head slightly. “Alphabet and Voodoo will handle the clear. You don’t need to worry about it.” His gaze didn’t leave mine, steady and unflinching.
I hesitated, fumbling for what we were supposed to have been doing, then asked, “Do we need to search the office?”
He shrugged, an almost faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “It will keep.”
My chest tightened. “I thought we were on a timetable,” I pressed, finally meeting his gaze squarely.
“The only timetable we’re on,” he said, voice low, almost teasing, “is our own.”
“But… the plan…” I argued, the words tumbling out even as my stomach knotted.
Bones didn’t pull away. Instead, he continued to rub my knuckles in slow, deliberate circles. Each touch chipped away at the tension coiled in my limbs, bit by bit loosening my death grip on my knees.
“Plans change,” he murmured, as if reading my mind.
“I… I—” I swallowed hard, the words catching in my throat. I didn’t have another argument.
Bones didn’t rush me. He let his touch anchor me, methodical, steady. His thumb brushed against my knuckles again, drawing my hands to rest atop his. The warmth radiating from him seeped through the tremor, and despite my retreat, it was like he held me.
“Still with me, Dollface?” The utter gentleness in his voice threatened to undo me.
“I think so,” I whispered and shifted just slightly, letting my body lean toward him without realizing it. The pressure of his presence was grounding, the slow, deliberate touch of his hand a lifeline in the storm inside me. And though my mind raced, my chest heaved, and my legs still shook, there was a small, stubborn spark of control flickering inside me.
“Good.” He eased to sit on the floor right there, not seeming even a little put off by how dirty I was. “Just going to sit here with you until you’re ready to move.” The explanation accompanied his careful movements, each one telegraphed to show me what he was going to do.
“Might take a while,” I confessed, as much as I wish it wouldn’t.
“We’ll take as long as you need.”
The words wrapped around me, fragile as they were, like a shield. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to stop trembling. I wanted the room, my body, my mind, to stop spinning. But I stayed huddled, fragile, and alive, letting myself feel the contrast between the chaos we’d survived and the quiet here, between my fear and the safety he offered.
We stayed that way for a long moment—just us, and the unconscious Ignacio at our feet, and the quiet that stretched around the aftermath of violence. But when I rasped, “Okay… okay,” something in his shoulders eased by a fraction.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said quietly.
The words made a hot spike of shame twist through my stomach all over again. I stiffened instantly. “I—I can’t. I’m—” My breath hitched, and I swallowed hard, the burn of bile still bitter at the back of my throat. “I’m so gross.”
