“No,” I admit quietly, my voice gravelly with emotion. “You don’t.”
I weigh my next words. I don’t want to scare her anymore than she already is. But I do want to find a way to reach through the haze of shock gripping her and bring her back a little.
“I know men like them. And I know how to make sure they never come back.” I sigh. “Not askin’ for trust yet. But tell me where to stand so I can watch your back while you remember how to breathe.” There’s no demand in my tone, just an offer laid bare at her feet.
“Why?” she asks quietly.
How the hell do I answer that without sounding like a predator trying to sweet talk his way past her defenses?
“No reason,” I grit out. “Not a damn one.” Lie. The truth is much worse. I can’t tell her I want to give her a reason to smile again. That when she laughs it’s like sunshine breaking through clouds I’ve been under for years. And those bastards stole that from me before I knew what to call it. “Just figured somebody oughta stand between you and the storm.”
She peers up at me with that same curious expression she gave me in the bookstore. Like she can’t tell if I’m real or not. Then, suddenly, her eyes widen and her face turns red. She shifts to hide the important parts. “M-maybe we could continue this conversation in the living room?” she stutters.
We’re both suddenly very aware of the fact that she’s naked. My eyes shoot straight to the ceiling and I retrieve my knife, holstering it. I stand up and back away, giving her space.
“Yeah,” I rasp, my face growing warmer. “Livin’ room. Good call.” I snag a towel from the rack and toss it over the shower door so she can reach it. I leave, stopping long enough to add. “Yell if you need help.” I pause. “Or y’know, if I need to shoot anybody.”
The door clicks shut behind me.
A few minutes later, it opens again. I’m halfway out of my chair before I sit back down, drumming a nervous rhythm on my knee. Don’t crowd her. Don’t fuck this up.
She steps into the living room and every muscle in my body locks up. Her robe does nothing to hide her generous silhouette or the fact that she’s moving a little too carefully. One misstep and she’ll shatter. I have to suppress the rage that threatens to break free again at the reminder.
“Gotta first-aid kit?” It comes out thicker than I intended. I clear my throat and try again. “Those wings need cleanin’ before they scar.” I don’t know how to fix this and I’m not sure if she will let me try.
Without saying a word, she walks back into the bathroom, returning with a little red box. She shuffles her feet, keeping her head down. She doesn’t want me near her. But something in her outweighs her fear. I’m assuming it’s the precious ink on her back.
I go over to the couch after she sits down and turns around. She lowers her robe. She’s not only scratched in places, butgouged. Torn where rough brick and rougher hands held her against the wall. Seeing the damage up close is harder than I thought it’d be. A knot forms in my throat and my chest aches in a way I didn’t know I was capable of.
The wings on her back are a work of fucking art. The detail is exquisite; delicate and fierce, like the woman they grace. But right now they are raw and ragged, torn by some sick fuck who doesn’t know he’s dead already.
I pick up the box from the coffee table. Taking out the tweezers, I dig around for things that were left behind in some of the deeper grooves, cleaning away dirt and debris the shower couldn’t reach with a precision that borders on tender. I have to clear my throat twice to get it working again. My fingers are steady in a way that betrays years of stitching myself up in motel bathrooms with nothing but whiskey and a switchblade.
“Gonna sting.”
I dab the antiseptic soaked gauze along a shredded feather edge. My touch is deliberately light. She sucks in air through her teeth. Everything in me wants to demand answers. Who did this to you? Why did they think they could take what wasn’t theirs? But questions can wait. For now I focus on the task at hand.
“Breathe.” I remind her when her shoulders tense.
I try to balance her in this moment, telling her she’s here, she’s alive, the worst is over. When I’m done disinfecting and bandaging what needs to be covered, I lean back. I don’t move away entirely. I let her lead—waiting for a cue, a sign, a dismissal. Anything but this silence stretching between us like another wound that needs to be treated.
“Thank you.” She lifts the robe back over her shoulders. But she doesn’t turn around. It’s like she’s trying to get her emotions under control before she faces me again.
“It’s nothin’,” I mutter.
A lie again, tending to her felt like the single most important thing I’ve ever done. She eventually turns around and the pain in her eyes threatens to swallow me whole.
“You got somewhere safe to go?”
She shakes her head and sits back on the couch. She hisses and straightens back up when she makes contact with it. “No, only here. I don’t think they are coming back... tonight anyway.”
Everything she doesn’t say comes through loud and clear. I sure as fuck don’t like the implication that they plan to come back. The fact she expects them to sits heavy in my gut. I tap my thigh, once, twice.
“You’re right.” My tone flat. “They aren’t comin’ back tonight.” I won’t let them. My unspoken vow hangs in the air like a livewire. “But you shouldn’t be here either.” I fish my keys out of my pocket, pull one off my key ring and hold it out to her. “Cabin in the mountains. Two hours east. Stocked fridge, reinforced doors. Stay as long as you need.”
“Oh, I’m not leaving.” She stands then hobbles around the couch. “I have a store to open in the morning.”
I resist the urge to reach out and stop her. She puts a kettle on, like she needs the ritual of it. I stand up and follow her. Keeping distance between us, I remind myself that she’s not ready for me to be in her space.
