He didn’t strike me.
He stood there, staring past me into the darkness, my blood still smeared across him like war paint—like a reminder that even monsters can bleed.
After a long silence, he spoke again.
“I’ll take you to the hospital.”
The words landed without warmth, without threat—flat, final. A statement, not an offer.
He withdrew his hand slowly, as though disengaging from something dangerous, and turned away from me. His shoulders squared, posture resetting into command.
He began walking toward the edge of the yard like the decision had already been sealed into stone.
I didn’t move.
My legs refused to cooperate, locked in place by fear and exhaustion. My heart hammered so violently it made me dizzy, each beat echoing in my ears like a warning siren.
He took three steps before he noticed.
Paused.
Looked back over his shoulder.
“What?” he asked.
The single word carried irritation, impatience—and something else. Confusion, perhaps. As if my stillness didn’t fit the narrative he’d already written for me.
I shook my head again. Small. Helpless. A child’s gesture trapped in an adult body.
I don’t understand.
I’m scared.
Please don’t leave me here.
The meanings tangled uselessly in my mind.
He exhaled sharply. A sigh stripped of mercy, heavy with restrained temper.
“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered under his breath.
He strode back to me in three long steps.
Before I could react—before panic could even fully bloom—he bent down, one arm sliding firmly behind my knees, the other bracing my back. The motion was decisive, practiced. A man used to moving bodies that resisted.
Then he lifted me.
The ground vanished.
I gasped silently as the world tilted, instinctively clutching at the lapel of his ruined shirt. His chest was solid against my side—warm, immovable.
I could feel the steady thud of his heart beneath muscle and bone, unbothered by the chaos he created around him.
His arms were careful.
Strong, but controlled.
Not crushing. Not cruel.
