I point upstairs, my voice thin. “Naomi’s in the closet. It’s locked.” I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes, but I know what he’s thinking.
“And the other one?” His question is clipped, demanding. I shrug, my stomach twisting. “She got away. I don’t know where she went.”
Liam stands abruptly, raking a hand through his hair. He curses under his breath, and I can practically feel his annoyance radiating off him.
I follow him to the closet, my legs unsteady beneath me. When I open the door, Naomi tumbles out, her wide, terrified eyes locking onto mine.
“Adeline!” Her voice is high and frantic, relief and panic blending together. “I thought they got you, I thought—” The words break apart, swallowed by sobs.
“I’m okay,” I whisper, though the words feel like a lie. It’s a bitter taste, and one I’ve become too accustomed to lately.
I hear Liam scoff from somewhere behind me.
Her gaze narrows as it lands on the cut on my face. “What happened?” she asks softly.
I turn away, unable to bear her pity. “It’s fine. I’m fine,” I reassure her quickly, but something about the look on her face makes me turn and walk away.
My face stings, and I avoid looking in the mirror as I enter the bathroom. Seeing my own reflection might just make my condition even worse than it already is. Liam follows me.
“Let me help you,” he says softly, his voice carrying a hint of care I hadn’t noticed before. I nod, still avoiding my own gaze in the mirror and not looking at him either.
I don’t argue. I don’t have the strength. There are no plasters in the house, but he wets a towel and moves toward me, his hands trembling slightly as he dabs at the wound on my face. He cleans the cut with such precision I’m sure he must have done this many times before. Precise, but he stops a few times to steady his hands. They’re shaky, and it looks like it hurts him though it shouldn’t… should it?
He squints his eyes, and a desperate, hurting groan leaves his mouth. His hand flies to his forehead and he squeezes and rubs it for a moment before he shakes it off. Almost like it never happened, he goes back to treating my wound, and I’m left staring at him completely dumbstruck.
“Are you okay? Do you have a headache?” I ask, meeting his pained gaze, but he only looks at me for a moment before looking away again.
“I’m fine,” he gets out, forcing a smile that crumbles at the edges.
Is he sick?
He doesn’t look fine. He looks like he’s holding something together with frayed threads.
Well now I feel bad for calling him all the way out here when he’s clearly ill.
“They got you pretty good, huh?” he jokes, but there’s no real humour in it. His hands are still unsteady, and I want to reach out, to steady him somehow, but I’m looking at the towel. Staring at its rough edges and the grey that is now stained with a blurred red.
“It doesn’t hurt,” I say truthfully, but it comes out more like a mumble. Once the adrenaline wears off, I doubt I’ll be this brave about it.
He starts to say something, hesitates.
“Don’t tell them,” I blurt out, my voice urgent. He knows exactly who I mean by “them” and I can see the internal struggle in his eyes.
His brows knit together. “Adeline—”
“Please.” I meet his eyes, silently begging. He sighs, his resolve crumbling.
“Okay,” he concedes softly, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I had been holding.
As he finishes treating my wound, a small, almost teasing smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “At least you look badass.”
And for the briefest moment, despite everything, I find myself chuckling softly.
***
I don’t sleep at all that night.
I lay awake, tossing and turning, while the minutes drag on like a slow pulse in my skull.
