She nods, but when she tries to get up her legs buckle. I catch her before she hits the floor.
“Okay. Okay, new plan.” I take a breath. “I’m going to help you. Just…tell me if you want me to stop.”
She looks up at me with her one good eye—the other is still swollen shut, a mess of purple and black—and a look of trust passes over her face. Or just exhaustion too deep for modesty.
I peel the ruined shirt off her as carefully as I can, but she still hisses when the fabric pulls away from dried blood. Her torso is a map of violence—bruises layered on bruises, boot prints on her ribs, finger marks on her arms. I’ve seen battlefield injuries that looked better than this.
My hands are shaking now, nausea rolling through me.
“Oh,darlin’,” I say thickly, a million emotions all stuck in my throat.
The rest of her clothes come off with clinical efficiency. I don’t let myself look, don’t let myself think about anything except getting her clean and warm and safe. I guide her into the shower and she leans against the tile, letting the hot water sluice over her.
The water runs red at first. Then pink. Then finally clear.
“There’s shampoo,” I say, my voice rough. “Some kind of fancy stuff. You?—”
“Please. Can you do it?”
I swallow hard and nod, grabbing the shampoo and pouring it into my hands. Then I step into the shower, still in my suit, not caring if I get wet, and start massaging it into her hair, ever so gently. She lets out a low hiss and I stop but she mumbles for me to keep going, so I do. The whole time my chest feels constricted, like there’s a hand in there closing over my heart, because this is the woman I love, still, now, more, and every wince makes me realize how close I was to losing her for good.
It makes it so hard to breathe.
“Conditioner?” I manage to say, after getting her back under the spray and gently washing the shampoo out. “Your hair is a little tangled.”
“Pile it on,” she says. “Tangled is an understatement.”
She’s not wrong. Though a lot of blood and grime and who knows what else has been washed away, swirling in the drain along with all the blood that was caked onto my suit, her hair is a rat’s nest. I pour conditioner on her head and start working it through, being as gentle as possible and taking my time.
“Mia…” I say softly, working it through her ends.
She makes a small sound in reply. When I don’t answer she says, “Yeah?”
There’s so much I want to tell her, but all the emotions slide around in my chest, unmoored and dangerous. I don’t even know how to articulate them, how to pick them apart from each other and offer them to her. This woman is so strong, so fierce, and so damaged that it’s undoing me, thread by thread. I love her. I really fucking love her, the feelings want to come pouring out of me because they’re strong, so damn strong and unstoppable. I want to tell her and then…
Well, what good will that do for us? Will that make me feel better? Will it make her feel better? Or will it only make her feel worse. Because whatever love she had for me, if she had any at all, is gone now. I saw it disappear the moment I dropped her off the roof.
And then there’s the voice.
The fucking voice is still there. Quieter now, almost a whisper, but stillthere. Not commanding, not pushing, just…present. Like a splinter lodged somewhere I can’t reach, reminding me it exists.
I thought destroying the remote would fix it. I was wrong. I thought Julia kept that voice alive. I was wrong.
Julia. I know that Mia killed her. She didn’t have to tell me but I know. Whether she kissed her with her poison lips or used some other instrument at her disposal or just plain strangled her to death, because Mia is a little killer at heart, Julia is gone.
I should feel something about that. Relief, maybe. Or triumph. The woman who controlled me, manipulated me, used me as her personal attack dog for a decade—she’s gone. I should be celebrating.
Yet, I just feel strangely hollow.
Julia was a monster. I know that. I know that so fucking well. She tortured Mia, ordered Cal’s death at my hands, treated me like property instead of a person. But she was also the only constant in my life since Emma died. She was there when I woke up confused and terrified after whatever they did to me. She talked me through the nightmares, the blackouts, the moments when I wasn’t sure what was real. She told me I was special. Important. Necessary.
She told me I was hers.
And now she’s dead on the floor of that facility, killed by the woman I chose over her.
I know Mia did the right thing and the only thing, that Julia would have never let either of us out of their alive, that she would have destroyed me in the end if she couldn’t have me the way she wanted. But it doesn’t make things any less complicated. In fact it only makes it more so.
“Nate?” Mia say quietly. “I think you can rinse now.”
