"Is it warm enough?" Reese's voice is small, perched on the counter like a broken bird. Her lip is still swollen, a reminder that I fucked up. I should have never let her have a fucking boyfriend. I thought Lieutenant Polo-and-Khakis was terrified of me. First thing, I’m going to make sure she feels safe, cared for. After that though, I’m going to enjoy every second of his fear as I murder him.
But that’s the thing about men who like to push women around. They think they’re gods, that the sun rises and sets on their asses and nothing can touch them. They’re wrong, so very fucking wrong. Men who abusewomen are bottom feeders; they are maggots. My favorite thing about maggots is how easily they’re killed. I can easily destroy his maggot family and whatever lineage they claim to have and spout off about like most dumbass wannabe waspy people do. I’ll erase them from ever existing.
"Almost." I dump in Epsom salt, then reach for the lavender bath oil she keeps on the shelf. Fucking lavender. The scent that's been on her skin for years after dance.
My hands shake as I add three drops, watching the oil create rainbow patterns on the water's surface. This is torture. Pure fucking torture. But I'd walk through hell barefoot if she asked me to.
I turn to face her. Her eyes are vacant, distant. I've seen that look before. Four years ago. The night Penn and I found her after tracking and chasing Reagan through the streets.
Then we found them in the field of an old abandoned hangar, Reese running for her life as the trafficker strangled Reagan, I took off after her, scooping her up as my cousin defended his wife.
After bringing the girls back together, I remember grabbing the tire iron that had been lying there and just beating the man’s already dead body until my arms gave out, until nothing recognizable was left of his face.
I felt better after that, even got an atta boy out of my cousin.
"Hey." I step between her legs where she sits on the counter, her bare feet dangling. "Look at me, Reese."
I cup her face in my hands, my thumbs gentle on her cheekbones. Her skin is so fucking soft under my callousedpalms. The contrast makes me want to scream. Someone like me shouldn't be allowed to touch something so perfect.
"Breathe with me," I tell her, my voice rougher than I intend. "In..."
She inhales shakily, her chest rising.
"Out..."
We breathe together, once, twice, three times. With each breath, her eyes focus a little more, coming back to me. Back to us. This bathroom. This moment.
"There you are," I whisper.
"I'm okay," she says, but we both know it's bullshit.
The bath is ready. Now comes the hard part. "Do you…need help getting in?"
My cock twitches traitorously at the thought, and I hate myself for it. She's hurt. She's vulnerable. And all I can think about is how many times I've jerked off imagining her naked, wet, begging for me.
I'm a fucking monster.
"Just help me stand?" She asks, and I nod, offering my forearm.
She slides off the counter, wincing when her feet hit the floor. Her body is sore not just from the showcase but from that motherfucker laying hands on her. I hope he enjoyed having hands, because after this, those are the first things I’m taking.
I turn to go, pausing at the door. "You want me to call RaeRae?"
She shakes her head, water droplets flying from her hair. "No, not yet. I can't deal with her right now." Her fingers trace circles in the water. "And dealing withher means dealing with Penn and the boys, and I love them, but that's an overstimulation I don't need right now." She looks up at me, those hazel eyes tired. "Not to mention the rest of your cousin cavalry arriving. You know how it is."
I do know. My family is like a fucking tsunami when they decide to show up. Overwhelming, destructive, and impossible to stop once they get going.
"Yeah," I agree, leaning against the doorframe. "I'll just be outside the door if you need me. When you're done, I'll clear out so you can change and sleep."
She nods, looking small and fragile in a way that makes my chest ache. "Thank you, phantom."
Something twists inside me, hot and fierce. She doesn't call me that often, but when she does—fuck. It's like a knife straight to the heart. A good knife. The kind that makes you bleed in all the right ways.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and step out, pulling the door almost closed behind me. I slide down the wall next to her bathroom door, my back against the cool plaster, and drop my head in my hands.
Phantom. Her protector in the shadows. The one who watches. The one who keeps her safe without her even knowing. Except for this time. She’s been calling me that since her freshman year.
The sound of water splashing echoes through the door. I close my eyes, letting my head fall back against the wall. The rhythmic sounds of her movements in the tub create a hypnotic pattern—water dripping, gentle splashes, the occasional sigh.
