“Good,” I say, my voice rough.“Now it’s where it belongs.And, you’re right, darling,” I murmur against her mouth.“You shouldn’t still be standing here.Let’s go home.”
Over the next two days, I don’t let Lindy out of my sight.We don’t leave the house.We don’t let anyone in who isn’t blood.My stomach is a knot with teeth.I almost lost her.She can’t stay defenseless.If a dumbfuck with no real skills could get to her, imagine what a leg ofSpiderwebcould do.
That first night, after we get home, I carry her upstairs, sit her on the closed toilet lid, and start the water.I run it hot and add Epsom.Two drops of the strawberry soap she likes.Steam fogs the mirrors.
“Bath?”I ask.
She nods.
I climb in behind her and pull her back to my chest, my thighs bracketing hers, the porcelain a cold ring around scalding water.I wash her hair slow enough to reset the axis of the earth.L I N D Y /// G I R Lmoves careful over scalp and nape, down the line of her shoulders.My palms map every bruise, every smudge of purple blooming under skin, and I mark each one with my mouth.Temple, cheekbone, hollow beneath her ear, each one an apology I don’t say out loud.
“Look at me,” I tell her when she’s rinsed clean.She tips her face up.I don’t kiss her mouth first.I kiss her marks again.Her temples.Her cheeks.The spot under her ear that makes her breath go thin.
“You’re safe,” I say into her wet skin.
“Take me to bed, Cassius,” she whispers.
I stand, wrap her in a towel fresh from the warmer, carry her, and lay her on the sheets.I dry her slow.Fluffy fabric kissing her throat, shoulders, the delicate inside of her elbows, the curve of her waist, the backs of her knees.My mouth presses to every place that hurts.When her skin is warm and dry, I bring the kit to the bedside: saline, gauze, liquid adhesive, arnica, butterfly strips.
“I want you.”
“Let me fix what I can first,” I say, giving her mind time to catch up with what she’s asking because shock isn’t consent.
I clean the split in her lip with saline, dab her wrists where the plastic bit deep.I clean her like she’s something holy, because to me she’s the holiest thing I’ve ever known.I glue the cuts deep enough for closing, lay thin strips where they’ll hold, smear arnica with the pads of my fingers over the bruises she’ll feel tomorrow, she’ll feel for days.Each time I start a spot, I kiss it, light, again, again, praying the repetition will drag the pain out of her, undo this night, take the marks from her and give them to me, but all it does is stop my hands from shaking.
I set the kit aside and kiss her mouth, careful around the split.My hands find her waist, her thigh, the small of her back where she fits my palm like it was carved there.
“Say yes,” I murmur against her mouth.
“Yes,” she breathes, and it wrecks me.
I don’t rush.I palm the drawer of the nightstand, pause long enough to keep my head, and grab a condom.
“No,” she whispers, and drags me back to her mouth.“I’m on birth control,” she says.“There hasn’t been anyone else.Not for a long time.”
“Same,” I tell her.“No one else.Not for a long time.”I search her eyes.“No one else.Not ever again.”
I help her lie back on the bed and situate myself above her, careful to hold my own weight.I rub my palms together, warming them before rubbing them down the length of her body.Her breasts are full, nipples hard, and I haven’t even touched them.I lean down to take one in my mouth, massaging the other with my palm.Two fingers tug and pull hard.She doesn’t squirm so I yank again and then move my other hand to her already drenched pussy.
“You like the pain.”It surprises me, but there’s no denying the look in her eyes as I close my mouth over her peaked nipple and bite hard enough to hurt, not enough to draw blood.“Use me,” I tell her.“Whatever it takes to feel better, Lindy girl.Take it.”
Something in her loosens.She rolls me to my back, swings a knee over my hips, and settles like she’s been practicing in dreams.She sets the pace—slow grind, deeper slide, testing angles.My hands fit her waist, then climb to her ribs, then lace with hers above my head.She pins my knuckles to the pillow, reads the letters there with her fingertips like scripture.L I N D Y /// G I R L.
“Good girl,” I rasp, and she breaks prettier than anything I’ve ever ruined.
By the time the sun climbs the second day, the worst of the shaking is gone.The need to talk is not.But I can’t turn her into steel without giving her the truth.I owe her at least that much before I put a knife in her hand and force her to breathe through terror.
We’re at the kitchen island.Afternoon light dances in her hair.Her ring clicks against the mug she’s warming with both palms.Her book lies open, spine unbroken.
“Darling.”
She looks up.“You’re leaving again.”Her breath hitches but she doesn’t flinch.
“No.”I circle her wrist with two fingers, careful not to irritate her still-healing marks, and pull her in.I kiss the crown of her head.“I’m not leaving, Lindy girl.”
Her entire body lets go all at once, and I know I could end my career for that exhale.
“This is more of a cards-on-the-table type of talk,” I say, resting my knuckles on the marble.L I N D Y /// G I R L, the skin scabbed over again.
