The tiniest smile crossed her face—barely there, just a slight lift at the corner of her mouth, but real. The first hint of the Stephy I knew, the one who could find humor even in darkness.
"Of course, honey," Louisa said, already moving to help. "Let's get you to the shower."
Stephy's eyes found mine, and something vulnerable crossed her face, something that went beyond physical need. "Lee? Could you...could you help me? Please?"
Louisa and I exchanged a look. She nodded slightly, understanding passing between us—the kind of wordless communication that came from years of family crises.
"I'll go get new sheets, Sophia will help me," Louisa said tactfully, looking at Sophia. "Fresh ones are in the main house. We’ll go fetch them.”
After they left, closing the door with pointed discretion, I helped Stephy stand. She was shaky, weak from three days of barely eating, but determined. Her fingers gripped my arm hard enough to leave marks, but I didn't mind. At the bathroom door, she paused, frustration crossing her face.
"I can't..." She gestured at her shirt with hands that trembled. "My ribs. I can't lift my arms that high. And the buttons..." She held up her hands, showing me how they shook.
"I've got you," I said softly, my throat tight.
I helped her with the buttons of the pajama top, keeping my touch clinical, careful, trying not to think about how many times I'd dreamed of undressing her under very different circumstances. But when the shirt fell away, my hands stilled. The world stopped. My vision went red, then white, then red again.
The bruises were everywhere.
Her ribs were painted purple and black like someone had used her for a canvas of violence. Finger marks on her upper arms, four distinct prints on each side where he'd grabbed her hard enough to leave his signature in her skin. A handprint on her shoulder, perfectly preserved in purple. More bruises down her sides like she'd been thrown into something hard. When she turned slightly, I saw more across her back, her spine a roadmap of brutality.
The shape of them, the pattern—I could read the whole attack in the marks on her skin. Could see where he'd grabbed, where he'd thrown, where he'd held her down. The scratch marks on her thighs where she'd fought, her own fingernails leaving defensive wounds as she'd tried to get away.
I must have made a sound—something between a growl and a sob—because she turned back to face me, her arms crossing protectively over herself, trying to hide the evidence.
"Lee..."
"I'm going to kill him." The words came out flat, emotionless, which made them worse. Each word precise, measured, a promise rather than a threat. "When I find him, I'm going to take him apart piece by piece. I'm going to?—"
"Stop." She put a hand on my chest, over my racing heart. I could feel my pulse pounding against her palm, violence trying to claw its way out. "I'm okay. I'm here. I'm safe."
"He hurt you." My voice cracked, broke, shattered. "He put his hands on you, and I wasn't there to stop it. I was eight hundred miles away drinking beer while he?—"
"But you came for me after. That's what matters." Her eyes were steady on mine, clearer than they'd been in days. "I need you here with me, not lost in anger. Please. I can't... I can't handle you disappearing into rage right now. I need you."
I nodded, swallowing the violence down like broken glass, and helped her with the rest of her clothes. Each new bruise was cataloged, filed away, added to the list of reasons why her attacker would pay. My hands shook as I helped her into the shower, adjusting the water temperature when her bruised ribs made it hard for her to reach.
She stood under the spray for a long time, just letting the water wash over her, and I could see the tension slowly leaving her shoulders.
"I fought," she said suddenly, water streaming down her face, mixing with what might have been tears. "I want you to know that. I fought hard. That's why there's so many bruises. I didn't make it easy for him."
"I know you did. I can see it." My voice was thick with pride and pain. "You're a fighter, Steph. Always have been."
"I was so scared I forgot that for a while. But when he... when he grabbed me, something kicked in. I remembered what you taught me. About going for the eyes, the throat. About using my nails. About not stopping until you're safe."
"That's my girl."
She managed to wash her hair with my help, wincing when she had to lift her arms. I kept my touch gentle, professional, even though inside I was plotting every way I’d destroy her attacker.
When she was clean, I wrapped her in the softest towel I could find, helped her into fresh pajamas—Sophia's, soft cotton with little moons on them this time.
"Better?" I asked.
She nodded, exhausted from the effort. "Much. I feel human again. Less like a victim, more like a survivor, and I don’t smell like a goat anymore,” she said with a little smile.
When I opened the bedroom door to help her back to bed, the room had been transformed. Fresh sheets, so white they almost glowed. Flowers on the nightstand—wildflowers from the meadow. The window cracked to let in fresh air. It smelled like hope.
I got her settled, pulled the covers up, and turned to leave her to rest. But the moment I stepped outside, the weight of what I'd seen hit me like a sledgehammer. Owen was there, stopping in his tracks. He must’ve been coming to check on some other appliance that didn’t need checking.
