“Because,” I exhale slowly, gathering the nerve to continue. “I couldn’t leave.” I don’t know what to say. I can’t tell her that the idea of leaving her alone eats a hole through my insides. “Some people make you walk through storms whether you want to or not. And you keep on walkin’. But some? Some come along and make you want to stand in the rain.”
I’m frustrated with myself for saying too much or maybe not enough. But there it is and I can’t take it back. “Point is,” I mutter, taking a step back and clearing my throat. “I’m here until this is done.” The words hang in the air like a promise. I shove my hands in my pockets.
“What do we do now?” She tosses her hands up. “Because the only idea I had, you blew all to hell.”
“Seriph,” I coax, “if you stay here tonight, they’re gonna come back with reinforcements. And I can’t protect this place from all of them at once.” I pause, my voice softens. “But I can protect you. So pack a damn bag. Because logic stopped workin’.”
Thirty minutes later, she’s coming down the stairs with an oversized suitcase and a backpack. Her face is scrunched up and she winces a couple times. Cursing myself for not helping, I take them from her. Surprisingly, she lets me. She gets a marker and a piece of paper. Fighting tears, she writes ‘Closed Until Further Notice’ and tapes it to the glass.
I feel my chest constrict. I know it will cost her to walk out that door not knowing when she can return. But I’ve already made the decision to keep her safe. And if that means yanking her out of her comfort zone, then I’ll do it. I refuse to let her get hurt again. I can’t get the memory of her huddled on her shower floor out of my head. I’ll be damned if this doesn’t hurt though. She turns, her eyes wide and red rimmed. I have to stop myself from dropping her bags to pull her to me. I want to hold her until that defeated look disappears and she feels whole again. Instead, I gesture to the door.
“You ready?” I ask softly.
She nods and I don’t push, shouldering her bag like it belongs there. She shuts off the lights and follows me out, locking up behind us. I steer her to my jeep with a hand on the small of her back. That simple point of contact is more for me than it is for her. The streets are quiet. I scan the area, taking in every shadow, looking for threats. I keep myself between her and the dark corners of the buildings. Opening the passenger door, I wait for her to climb in. Then I toss her bags in the backseat before rounding to the driver’s side. The engine rumbles to life and I pull away from the curb.
“We will figure this out.”
“I need a pharmacy,” she says abruptly, her tone empty.
“You hurt worse than you’re lettin’ on?” That was the last thing I expected her to say. My grip tightens on the steering wheel. If those cunts did more than slap her, leaving her bruised or bleeding somewhere I can’t see—I won’t be able to stop myself from turning around and hunting them down right fucking now.
“It-it’s because of last night. I need...” She pulls at one of her fingernails. “I need to buy a morning after pill.”
“Understood.”
Lights slide by outside the windshield. I’m angry. So fucking angry. But not at her. I’m angry at them; at Sokolov, at his men, at every twisted prick that’s ever laid a finger on her, at every system that’s failed to protect her. And mostly, at myself for showing up too damn late.
A short while later, I signal and pull into a 24-hour pharmacy parking lot. I let the jeep idle. The idea that they left her with anything more than scrapes and bruises makes me want to tear a hole in reality so I can kill them twice. But I ignore the bubbling fury inside my chest and focus on what she needs.
“Wait here.” It’s a request not an order. Before she can protest, I’m out the door and striding toward the entrance.
I return minutes later with a paper bag in one hand and two bottles of water in the other. I pass them to her, sliding back behind the wheel. I give her space while trying to make it clear that I’m not going anywhere. She opens the box and takes the pill. A look of wary resolve on her face. She stares out the window as I drive us onto the highway.
“I’ll pay you back,” she whispers.
“The hell you will,” I scoff. Silence passes between us, before I glance over at her again. “You good?”
“I’ll need a clinic in a few days, maybe a week. You know, for testing...” She's speaking so quietly I can barely hear her.
It’s like she’s going through the motions, there’s no feeling in her words. Leaving her store behind is weighing on her ina way someone like me will never understand. I’ve never put down roots so hard that I worried when they were severed. I consciously relax my hands on the steering wheel.
“I’ll take you.” My voice is unwavering. “Just tell me when.”
There’s no hesitation, no judgment. If she needs this, then I will be there. The weight of what she’s saying isn’t lost on me. And it’s another tally against the men who hurt her. The silence stretches between us like an insurmountable force. And I’ll be damned if I know the right thing to say to overcome it.
~ Seriphina Joseph ~
THE DRIVE TO THE CABINtakes a little over two hours. We stop once at a drive-thru for food before getting back on the highway. Griffin lets me connect my phone to the radio’s bluetooth and tells me to listen to whatever I want. I can tell he is trying to make me feel comfortable but nothing he does can really stop the aching hole in my chest. I turn on my Sleep Token playlist which includes every album and EP they’ve released and stare out the window. I’m too upset for small talk. I don’t feel like taking the energy to pretend with him when my entire life imploded and the universe isn’t done with me.
I don’t think about the fact that I let a complete stranger put me in his jeep so he can drive me to fucking gods know where. I haven’t told my closest friends who I’m with or where I’m going. And I’m struggling to keep from falling apart in his front seat. He doesn’t seem to mind the quiet though. And I’m grateful for his silent sentry over my pain; the trauma that I haven’t figured out how to come to terms with. I haven’t begun to process what happened last night. I went straight into survival mode. I decided to fight for my store and every moment of focus was spent on doing that. But now? Now where do I put the thoughtsthat threaten to break through at any moment? The ones that remind me why my back burns and my muscles ache? My nails press into my palms as we pull into a gravel drive.
The driveway is long and curves off into the woods. Griffin slows the jeep down to a crawl, following it deep into the trees until a cabin comes into view. It’s small, secluded, and surrounded on all sides by forest. He cuts the engine and steps out, scanning the treeline. Rounding the front, he opens my door. I take his hand and allow him to help me down. It’s quiet here under the night sky, with only the wind, the trees, and the stars. He grabs my luggage out of the back and I follow him up to the porch. He unlocks the front door, which has way too many locks for a cabin no one is going to find. He steps back and holds the door open in quiet invitation. I seal my fate as the victim of a super hot serial killer and walk inside.
The interior of the cabin is surprisingly cozy. It’s not what I expected from a guy like Griffin. Although, I barely know the man, so it doesn’t make sense that I enter his home or murder lair with expectations anyway. For someone who walks around like danger wrapped in shadows, it’s homey. There’s a large flatscreen TV sitting above the fireplace in the center of the living room. A plush faded leather sofa and a single recliner with a knitted throw blanket sit around a coffee table across from a bookshelf crammed with dog-eared paperbacks and military manuals. A bar stands in the corner. On the other side of the space is a dining room table and a kitchen with a fridge, sink, and large island with an embedded stove top and oven built into it. There are plenty of cabinets and a pantry. A hallway leading off to the side, goes to what I assume are the bathroom and bedrooms. The windows and doors look reinforced with a ton of locks and metal bars. If it weren’t for the personal items here and there, this would look like a safe house from the movies.
“Make yourself at home.” He walks around me and sets my bag down.
I probably look like hell. I’m mentally, physically, and emotionally spent. I can tell from the itch on my back that my bandages need to be redressed. I’ve taken no time to figure out who this man is or what he does for a living. He has a cabin in the fucking woods that looks like it could survive a bomb drop. He carries large knives and a gun holstered to his side. His jeep looks bulletproof. He obviously knows how to fight—if the way he took down the guys in my store is any indication. Did I jump out of the frying pan and into the fire? I’m afraid of him but the fear I feel isn’t for my physical well-being. It’s the kind of fear that says he will destroy my heart not my body. Well, at least not in a way I don’t want him to. I don’t move further into the room. I convince myself, if I don’t take another step, I can still run away.
