Seven moves as I approach, offering me his spot next to Elijah. I take it and touch the top of Atticus's hand, silently telling him to let me do it.
He places Elijah's wrapped hand into mine, standing. "I'll get him some water."
Elijah has his opposite forearm slung over his eyes as his breaths finally, mercifully, start to even out. I watch his throat bob, and then he wets his lips.
"You should go, Angel," he says in a pained whisper. "I don't want you to see me like this."
I shake my head even though he can't see me. "I'm not going anywhere."
As gently as I can, I unwrap his hand, now warm from the heating pad, and delicately begin to massage his palm.
He flinches, and I pull my hands away. "Is that too much?"
It's his turn to shake his head. "No. No, it's good. Keep going."
I massage my thumbs over his palm, keeping the back of his hand pressed to the heating pad, hoping the combination of both will provide him some faster relief. I saw how hard he was fisting his hands in the blankets. He must've really hurt it.
It's quiet while Atticus comes back with water and clean sheets, and Seven sits against the wall, humming a quiet tune that sounds familiar and seems to calm Elijah down even more. It strikes me as the tension in his hand begins to ease and hisstiff fingers become pliable again, that this is something they've done more than once. Probablymanytimes.
The heating pad. The water and clean sheets. The humming. The way Seven knew he'd have to hold Elijah down while he woke him to prevent being attacked.
How many times has Elijah had to go through this?
And how many times have they had to listen to his screams?
Hearing Elijah's screamsoncehas to rank as one of the most terrifying and heart-wrenching moments I've ever experienced. I don't even remember coming down the stairs.
Actually, I don't remember anything between hearing him scream and barging through his bedroom door.
I'd been so sure someone was hurting him in here. That I'd open it and find one of Ambrose's assassins had come to finish him off. And maybe I'd be too late.
Once Elijah's hand is relaxed in mine and my fingers are sore from massaging him, he lets his forearm slip from his eyes and blinks into the diffused light from the hall. He finds me first, and then Seven lounging against the wall. Then Atticus leaning in the doorway, and finally Ellie snuggled up against him.
He sighs. "How bad was it?"
"Not that bad."
"Bad."
Atticus and I speak at the same time, and I cut him a glare at his lack of sensitivity. Of course it was bad, but did he really need to tell Elijah that? Isn't it obvious he's already embarrassed enough?
Atty drops his gaze, mouth in a tight line.
"I should shower." Elijah starts to push himself up, but it's obvious his body is weak as he falters. "I probably smell like?—"
I wrap my arms around him once he's sat up, uncaring about the dampness I feel through his shirt. I cling to him, and his left arm wraps around my middle, holding me against him tightly.
"I'm all right, Angel," he whispers against my neck. "I'm sorry if I scared you."
I shake my head against him. I want to tell him it's okay, but that fear I felt when I heard him from upstairs…
I think I'm starting to get it now—how he feels about me being their Trojan horse in the revenge scheme against Ambrose. Because if the roles were reversed, I would never want him anywhere near the man who could provoke such nightmares.
Unbidden, an image of Elijah on his knees, a whip connecting with his back, splitting flesh and making him scream, comes to life in my mind. How many times did he have to endure that? How many times did he think he might never see his brothers again? That he would either continue to paint in that room until madness or death claimed him?
My fingertips brush over the bumps of his scars through his damp shirt and a rage unlike any I've felt in a long time simmers hot in my stomach.
"Everything is going to be okay," I say, willing myself to believe it.
