He shuffled, blinking against the light, his feet dragging over the grout lines. There was an old towel on the floor, and I aimed him at it, then steadied him when his knees wobbled.
He looked wrecked. Even with the swelling down and most of the blood washed off his face, the bruises had spread, blooming under his skin like black roses.
The cut on his lip was a straight line, clean but deep, and it pulsed with every heartbeat. His hair clung in damp clots, and there was a patch of dried blood on the side of his neck that I hadn’t noticed before, probably where one of the bastards had tried to choke him.
I set him on the closed toilet lid and crouched in front of him, hands fisted against my thighs to keep them from shaking. My head was full of static, the kind that buzzes when you stand too close to live wires.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Won’t take long.”
He nodded, but didn’t look at me. Instead he traced the seam of his pajama bottoms, picking at a loose thread. His hands were steady, which pissed me off for reasons I couldn’t articulate. I wanted him to be angry, to break something, to let it out.
Instead, I did it for him. I reached for the hem of his t-shirt and peeled it off, slow so I didn’t tear the scabbed-over scrapeacross his ribs. He raised his arms without complaint, wincing only when the shirt stuck to the cut.
The bruises on his torso were worse than I’d expected: one the size of my fist blooming over his left side, another small one curling under his collarbone. I touched them, gentle as I could, but he sucked in a breath all the same.
“Sorry,” I said.
He shrugged. “Had worse.”
I doubted it.
I hooked my fingers in the waistband of his bottoms, sliding them down over his hips. He wasn’t wearing underwear—probably too out of it to remember—and I tried not to stare at the bruises that tracked down his thigh, the angry red line on his hip where the gravel had bit in.
His legs shook, but he didn’t make a sound.
I set the water to lukewarm, then led him to the shower. He gripped my wrist, the way you might grip a handrail, knuckles sharp against my skin. I guided him in, waited for the spray to hit, then stepped in after him, fully clothed. He shivered, more from exhaustion than cold, but I adjusted the temperature anyway, careful not to scald.
The water washed the last of the dried blood from his face, leaving behind streaks of diluted red that swirled down the drain. The bathroom filled with the scent of clean skin and iron, and I breathed it in, letting the rage settle in my lungs.
Levi tipped his head back, eyes closed, water tracing the slope of his jaw and the column of his throat. He looked like he might fall asleep standing up. I took the hotel soap, lathered it between my palms, then set to work, fingers tracing over every bruise, every scrape, every mark they’d left on him.
He winced when I touched the split lip, and something inside me cracked. I wanted to scream. I wanted to put my fist through the wall. But instead I took a deep breath and forced my hands tomove slow, gentle, washing his hair in slow circles, then cradling his face in my palm while I rinsed him clean.
“You’re good,” I whispered. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
His lashes fluttered, but he didn’t open his eyes. “I know,” he said.
When I finished, I wrapped him in a towel, careful to pat rather than rub. I steered him to the sink, sat him down, then grabbed the first aid kit from under the counter. My fingers shook so hard I almost dropped the box.
Levi watched in the mirror, face slack and unreadable. I met his gaze, and for a moment, I saw the fear there, raw and undigested.
“Does it hurt?” I asked, dabbing at his lip with a gauze pad.
He snorted. “Only when I laugh.”
“Don’t,” I said. “Not tonight.”
He tried to smile anyway.
I cleaned every cut, every scrape, the smell of antiseptic stinging my nose. The ointment went on last, a thin layer over the split lip, the road rash on his thigh, the scrape along his ribs.
I lingered on the tattoo at his wrist, running my thumb over the black letters—my name, fused to his skin, proof of something even pain couldn’t erase.
His hand closed over mine, squeezing once.
“I’m not scared,” he said, and this time I believed him.
I finished bandaging the last wound, then stood. My legs ached, a phantom pain in my knees like I’d spent the day kneeling on gravel. I helped him up, walked him back to the bed, then settled him onto the pile of pillows and pulled the blanket over his body.
