"No." My voice came out hoarse. Rough. "No hospital. I just—I want to go somewhere safe. Somewhere private. Please."
"Julian, you need medical attention—"
"I'm okay. I'm not seriously hurt. Just bruised. Just—please. No hospital. I can't—I need to not be around strangers right now."
Elio looked at the paramedic. "Treat what you can here. If it's serious, we'll reconsider. But he's been through trauma. He needs privacy. Safety. Can you work with that?"
The paramedic nodded. "I can do basic treatment. But if there's internal injuries or serious trauma—"
"There's not. He's bruised. Dehydrated. Still has drugs in his system. But he's okay. Treat that here. Please."
They worked on me right there. IV for dehydration. Bandages for my wrists. Checking my back—the welts were painful but not serious. Checking my face—the split lip and bruised cheek would heal. No sexual assault. Thank God. Elio had gotten to me in time.
Through all of it, Elio held my hand. Didn't let go. Didn't move away. Just stayed close. Anchoring me.
When they were done, Elio helped me into a car. His car. Matteo drove. Luca sat in front passenger seat. Elio sat in back with me. I leaned against him. Let him hold me. Let myself finally feel safe.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"My apartment. Where no one can hurt you." His arms tightened around me. "I'm so sorry, Julian. I should've protected you better. Should've seen this coming. Should've—"
"You found me. You saved me. That's what matters." My voice was shaking. Everything was shaking. Adrenaline crashing. Shock setting in. "You came for me. I knew you would. I just—I had to hold on. Had to stay strong until you got there."
"You did. You were so strong. So brave. I'm so proud of you."
"Is Dante—"
"Dead. Matteo made sure. He's gone. He'll never hurt you again. Never threaten you again. Never touch you again. He's done."
I should feel something. Relief. Vindication. Satisfaction.
Instead I just felt empty. Exhausted. Traumatized.
We drove in silence. Elio held me. I tried not to think about the past eight hours. About Dante's hands on me. About the belt. About the knife at my throat. About how close I'd come to—
I shuddered. Elio felt it. Held me tighter.
"We're almost there. Almost home. You're safe. You're with me. Nothing's going to hurt you."
At Elio's apartment, he helped me inside. Helped me to the bathroom. Started running water for a shower.
"Can you stand?"
"I think so."
"I'll help you. I'm not leaving you alone. Not yet."
He helped me undress. Careful of the injuries. Gentle with the bruised areas. His face was tight with controlled rage at every mark he found. Every bruise Dante had left.
"I should've killed him myself," he said quietly. "Should've made him suffer. Should've made him pay for every mark on you."
"I'm glad you didn't." I touched his face. "I'm glad the first thing you did was get to me. Take care of me. That mattered more than revenge."
He helped me into the shower. Warm water. Steam. Washing away the basement. The fear. The feeling of Dante's hands.
Elio washed my hair. Careful. Gentle. Then helped me wash my body. Avoiding injured areas. Making sure I was clean. Safe. Cared for.
When I was done, he helped me out. Dried me carefully. Helped me into soft sweatpants and one of his t-shirts.
