My breath hitches. "No."
"Della, it's just a precaution. We need to—"
"No." I say it louder, stronger. I look at her, and I know I'm shaking, but I don't care. "I'm not going to the hospital."
"Della, she's right," Dorian starts, his protective-alpha voice kicking in. "You need to be seen. You're in shock."
"Dorian." I cut him off, grabbing the front of his shirt. My voice is a raw whisper, and it costs me every last bit of my strength. "Please. Please, don't make me. I can't."
He looks at me, really looks at me—past the blood, past the vomit, into the raw terror in my eyes. He sees it's not stubbornness. It's a wound. And he, finally, understands.
His entire posture changes. The argument dies on his lips. He nods, a single, sharp motion, and turns to the paramedic. His voice is different. Not arguing. Commanding.
"Do whatever you have to do, here. If she's stable, I'm taking her home. I will not leave her side for a second."
The medic looks from his iron-willed face to my desperate one. She sighs, defeated.
"She's lucid and conscious. She’s intoxicated, but stable. Vomiting worked in her favor—she likely expelled a lot of the alcohol. We don’t need to pump anything," she says after checking my pulse and blood pressure.
"She's within her rights to refuse transport. But you should monitor her. Make sure she drinks lots of fluids and gets a good rest. If she's confused, if she gets sick again, or gets worse in any way, you call 911. Understood?"
"Understood," Dorian vows, his voice a gravelly promise.
David appears at his side as the medic bandages my arm.
"We're clear. They're taking our statements in the morning. Let's get out of here."
I try to stand, but my legs feel like water. Before I can stumble, Dorian is there. He scoops me up in his arms, one arm under my knees, the other securely around my back. I'm too exhausted to protest. I just melt, my head finding the solid curve of his shoulder and inhale his scent.
The next thing I know, I’m in the backseat of a car. Dorian’s jacket is draped over me.
I feel the car stop. I'm still in his arms as he carries me up the walkway to the house. Silvia is standing there, and I can see how worried she is.
“I’m fine, Chiquita. Don’t worry.” I tell her, my voice rough.
“I was so scared, Della,” she whispers as she gently takes my hand. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Now, go get some sleep.”
She steps aside and points Dorian to my room.
He walks into the quiet space and lays me on the bed with a gentleness I barely recognize. As he starts to pull the blanket up I whisper:
"Wait."
The warehouse, the ropes, the cold... the sickening smell of cheap vodka and fear—it’s all still clinging to my skin. "I... I need a shower first. Wash it out."
“Let me do it, Della.” His eyes, wild and frantic moments ago, soften to an intense focus as he carefully helps me to my feet and walks me into the bathroom.
He tests the water, adjusts the temperature until it’s just right—perfectly warm. Then he helps me peel off what’s left of my ruined, bloody clothes, slow and careful, like he’s afraid I’ll break.
He stops and, for a second, he just looks at me. Then he sheds his own clothes—shirt, jeans, everything. This isn’t seduction. It's about stripping away everything that’s kept us apart.
Just two people, nothing in between, nothing left to hide.
He guides me under the shower, steps in behind me. I close my eyes, leaning back against him, feeling his hands, infinitely gentle, begin to wash me clean. He’s washing off more than blood and sweat. He’s chasing away the stink of cheap vodka, the ghosts clinging to me from that warehouse.
As if time didn’t exist and the whole world was on pause, he takes the shampoo and starts washing my hair. His fingers massage my scalp slow and steady, like he’s not just untangling my hair but trying to smooth out the knots in my head.
With every cascade of warm water and fragrant foam running down my back, I feel my dark thoughts, the memory of Leah... all of it swirling and disappearing down the drain.
