His mouth opens. Closes. No sound comes out.
He wants to hold her. I can see it in his hands, the way they flex uselessly at his sides.
I shake my head once.
She’s in pain. No one touches her.
“Fuck,” he breathes, bending at the waist. Then he straightens, forcing himself into control. “Alright. I need to ask you two questions.”
She nods faintly.
“Were you raped?”
Tears spill down her cheeks as she shrugs.
Spike nods in return, his jaw hardening. “Okay. We can handle this one of two ways. We take you to the hospital. A rape kit gets done. Police are notified. They hunt this bastard down.”
“Or,” I add quietly, “we take you to Patch. He does the exams. Gives you the meds you need. And you let the Shadows handle finding the fucker.”
“Either way,” a voice rumbles from behind us, “he dies.”
I turn.
Bones. Crusher. Skip. Foster.
All of them here.
“The only difference,” Spike says coldly, “is how fast.”
He meets her eyes again.
“Either the system puts him in a cage and someone finishes it quick… or we find him ourselves.”
“And we make it slow.”
Abigail looks up at me and gives a small, sad smile.
“The dreams started again,” she says, and I know she’s deflecting.
“Baby,” I murmur, carefully cupping her face. There are a few shallow cuts along her cheeks, nothing deep, but seeing them still twists something ugly in my chest. “Hospital or Patch?”
“Home,” she says, clutching the sheet tighter around herself. “Safety.”
“I brought the wagon,” Bones says. “Didn’t know what shape she’d be in or if we’d have more bodies to haul back.”
“Send a prospect for my bike,” I tell Skip. He nods and pulls out his phone without question.
“Come on, sweet girl,” I say gently, guiding her toward the door. “Let’s get you home.”
“Foster,” Spike starts.
“Don’t even need to finish,” Foster cuts in. “I’m already on it. Nothing else in this world matters right now. I’ll find the fucker who did this to our princess.”
“I’m really tired,” Abigail murmurs once I get her settled safely inside the wagon.
“Blood loss?” Foster asks as he slides into the front passenger seat.
“There wasn’t much blood on the sheets, and it doesn’t look like the cuts are too deep,” I say, knowing very well the fucker might have cleaned up afterward. “But Abigail… if Patch says you’ve lost too much blood, wearegoing to the hospital. No arguments.”
