Jolie held the wood of the door in her other hand, keeping the door wide, using it as a shield to cower behind.
Her eyes, wet and downcast, didn’t even glance up as I called her name. “Jolie? Are you okay?”
She wasn’t okay.
She really wasn’t okay.
She was sobbing, shaking, terrified.
And I didn’t know why, but I knew it was something to do with me. I knew she’d been put through Hell.
Jolie
Hell’s tone was different when he moved to me. Lighter, proving that he’d gone back to the darkness he thrived in. Woody was back, a terrified child kneeling before me, flustered by the confusion in his gaze.
I tried to hide, praying he’d leave. I didn’t have the strength to settle his fears, not when I couldn’t control mine.
But he didn’t. He stayed.
His shaking fingers settled on my knee, and I had nowhere I could sink to avoid it, though I still tried. He waited for my rejection to slap him away. Waited for me to scream for distance.
But I struggled to talk.
I lifted my eyes from the worn-down carpet that had caused as many marks on my body as Hell had, and I found his eyes staring into mine.
“Are you okay?” he asked, like he had no fucking idea what he’d done.
Because he didn’t have any idea what he’d done.
“Leave me alone.” The words rushed off my tongue much faster than I thought possible. . . but they were still soundless.
He blinked again, slow and hard, like he’d done so many times in the last few moments.
“Jolie. . .” his shaky fingers brushed my cheek, tracing a bruise caused by his hands squeezing me too tightly in his hold. “What happened?”
My nostrils widened sucking in gulps of oxygen. The room was stuffy with heat. The smell of stolen sex fumigated the air, overpowering the air freshener, that in Nessie’s words, smelled like rainbows.
“You’re bleeding.” Woody looked down, his eyes guiding my own to the mess between my legs where soreness lingered.
Pulling my short-sleeved shirt down as far as I could, I tried to shield as much of me as possible. . . but it was impossible. The shirt barely met my hips; the silky satin had no give, offering no sympathy for my situation.
Red stained my legs, trails of blood slacking off around my knees. Affirmation of my agony and Hell’s abuse. My face scrunched, hate bringing an ugly scowl to distort my features.
Scooching back only millimeters, I tried to get farther away from him. I prayed I’d fall through the wall and into another realm where good still existed.
The inches between us became less and less, millimeters evaporating. He didn’tstop until his breath kissed the bruises on my cheeks. His heat somehow soothing my pain. I hated that. He had no right to bring me comfort, intentional, or otherwise.
His touch on my face became a tender caress, and instinct had my fingers coating his as he pulled our faces together.
My wet cheeks became wetter as his tears hit.
“I’m sorry, Jolie, I’m so sorry for whatever it is he did.” He held me for a moment, and I allowed only that. “I’m so sorry.”
My face pulled back, turning from him and creating a distance that he allowed. “You should have controlled him.”
“We don’t know how. I’m sorry.” He looked sorry. . . but words were just words.
Actions always spoke louder.
