I continued my story.“One day my father stumbled home drunk.He yelled at everything and everyone.The bottle he threw shattered against the wall.My mother disappeared into the bedroom -- her usual escape.I ended up standing alone in the yard because nowhere else felt safe.”
Jade’s fingers tightened a little.
“Bruno jumped the fence,” I said.“I thought he’d tear into me.Instead he went straight for my old man.Took a chunk out of his pant leg.Snapped at his hand every time he raised it.Ran circles around him until the neighbor came out and dragged him back home.”
Her eyes widened.“What happened after?”
“My father swore he’d kill the dog,” I said.“Next day, a For Sale sign went up in our yard.We moved two weeks later.No warning.No goodbye.I never saw Bruno again.”
A quiet settled between us.Jade’s thumb brushed over my knuckles, small and absent movements while her body worked to stay present.
“Everyone thought Bruno was mean,” I said.“Truth was, he had priorities.The dog knew who deserved teeth.Point is, loud and rough doesn’t always mean bad.Sometimes it means someone who bites the right target.”
Her gaze dropped, then lifted again.“And you?”
“I learned early you either become the man who throws bottles at kids,” I said, “or you become the man the dog thinks is worth protecting.”
Silence held again, but her breathing slowed.Her shoulders dropped another inch.Her grip stayed on my hand, steady now.“You’re a good man, Kane,” she said quietly.
“Most days I’m a man trying not to screw up,” I said.“Good is a big word.”
“I’m using it anyway,” she said, and the stubborn edge returned.“Deal with it.”
Something warm spread in my chest.Not pride.Not ego.Relief, maybe.
I held her hand while minutes ticked by.Lamp glow warmed our small circle on the bed.Shadows claimed the rest of the room.She glanced at the door less frequently now.Her eyelids grew heavy.The panic in her body faded to a manageable tremor.
“You should sleep.”
Her head tipped toward me.“Stay until I drift off.”
“Yeah.”I nodded.“I can do that.”
She lay back against the pillow, still holding my hand.The blanket covered her legs.My shirt hung off her shoulder, exposing the edge of another bruise, older than tonight.Yellow at the edges.Purple in the center.
I stared at it a beat too long.“How long?”I asked, voice quiet.
Her eyes opened again, wary.“How long what?”
“How long has Roth put hands on you?”I said.“No bullshit.”
Her fingers tightened around mine.“He didn’t, not personally.It was his men.Roth intimidated me, but he didn’t physically hurt me.”
Rage rolled through me, thick and heavy, as she told me more.I swallowed the violence rising in my throat.“Before him?”
A pause.Then a small nod.“Ex-boyfriend.”
I let out a slow breath.“You’ve had shit luck.”
A weak huff escaped her.“Tell me about it.”
I leaned closer, not touching her, keeping my voice low and controlled.“No one touches you again.Not him.Not his men.Not anyone.”
Her eyes filled again.“I still don’t get why it matters to you.Not that I’m not grateful.After all, I came here hoping you’d help.”Her voice told me she couldn’t comprehend protection without paying some price.
“Because I enjoy breathing.”My words came out blunt.“My lungs work better when you occupy the same room.”
She stared at me with wide eyes, confusion written across her face.A single tear slid down her cheek.She wiped away the moisture fast, clearly angry at herself.“You shouldn’t say such things to someone in my mental state,” she whispered.“I might believe you.”
