“…Lev…” It’s a mere croak, but it calls me to her nonetheless.
I throw him to the ground, head thumping against the windowsill, and he groans, unfortunately still alive. I straighten, but not before pulling out my phone and snapping a picture of my mess.
“If you’re who I think you are, her brother gets to decide what to do with your ass. And if you’re not, then you’remine. I’ll hunt you the fuck down, and I promise, this is nothing compared to what I’ll do to you then. Touch her again, and I’ll start digging your grave tonight.”
Before turning away, I send my foot into his ribs. He groans before seemingly passing out. It’s not enough, but with the immediate threat dealt with, Serafina needs to get to safety.
I turn, finding her on the floor a few feet away, hair draped over her face. I drop to my knees, heart pounding quicker than I knew possible, before grasping her chin and forcing her head straight.
“Fina?”
Her eyes flutter, and she lets out a shuddered breath, quelling my head that’s seconds away from exploding. When her eyes shut again, I pry them gently open. Her pupils are disturbingly skinny.
Fucking asshole drugged her.
“Serafina, open your eyes.”
Nothing. I scan the room, searching for needles or anything to suggest what we’re dealing with. An empty cup sits abandoned. If he drugged her drink, it’s likely something she needs to sleep off.
I yank my shirt off and tug it over her, managing to slide her arms through the holes. She’s a doll, limp and occasionally letting out the softest of whimpers that just about destroy me.
“You’re okay. I’ll get you out of here. You did good.”
When my shirt covers as much as possible, I retrieve her phone discarded off to the side, slipping it into my pocket, and then her bra, stuffing that in my other back pocket. I slide an arm beneath her knees and the other around her back and hoist her into my arms, casting a final glare towards her attacker, regretting when his chest lifts in a breath.
I leave the room, not bothering to close the door behind me, and push past the numerous of drunken students. They can all die. Especially the ones who were only a few feet from where she was getting attacked.Especiallythe supposedfriendshe came with. There something isn’t right about that girl, and I’ll start digging as soon as I can.
Some toss us curious stares, but no one dares to stop me as I carry the passed out, drugged girl, which says enough about their shitty morals.
When we make it outside, the fresh breeze passes over her, and she whimpers again, turning her head into my chest. Something cracks inside me by that simple action. I’ve carried her twice in one week, when I’ve never before with anyone else. It’d mean getting close enough, to care enough about someone else.
But with Serafina, my arms clench her tighter, unable to imagine her anywhere else.
“You’re okay. We’re going home.Printessa, stay with me.” The nickname is my half-baked attempt to gain a response; maybe her hatred of it will overpower whatever he drugged her with.
The reminder quickens my steps. It makes me want to lay her on the grass and turn around and finish him with my bare hands.
If she didn’t call me, what would I have found?
If I didn’t get to her in time, what would she have been fighting against?
Against her thigh, my finger taps its one-two-one over and over and over as we walk, anxiety building to heights never before reached. Not even when locked inside prison. All those moments locked up, hating my father, and it’s nothing compared to the emotion clawing—clinging—to me now.
I manage to get inside the building, thankful no one’s in the hallways, making it to our dorm without further interruption. I pass her room, not quite sure what I’m doing when resting her in my bed instead, wanting her not only closer, but without tainting her own space when she wakes and it all comes back.
After turning her head to the side in case she pukes, I rush to the mini fridge for a bottle of water to start rinsing out hersystem. When I return, her head is over the side of the bed, the only warning before a wet splash of vomit decorates the floor. She drops to sleep right there on the edge, her hair hanging over the side of the bed.
Reaching her, I roll her onto her back and slip an arm behind her head to lift her upright. “Drink. I need you to take in a little, okay? For me.”
Her lips part even as her head lolls, so I tip the bottle, letting a bit of water stream between her lips. Most slips over her cheek onto the bed, but some makes it inside, and her tongue moves on instinct. Her eyes flutter again, and she opens them. They’re dull, lifeless—a hit in the gut.
As are her next words. “L-Lev…I tried.”
“You did, Fina. You did good. But I need you to drink.”
Sheneedsto be okay. I need her to wake tomorrow, well enough that we can talk about those stupid reality shows before she studies.
Something claws at my chest. In prison, the sensation was self-preservation kicking in, an innate fear for my life. This isn’t that. It’s worse. It’s fearforher. It’s more powerful than anything I’ve ever felt before.
