She nods, satisfied, and steps aside.
I push the door open.
Ayla sits on the examination table, hoodie back on, arms wrapped around herself. Her eyes find mine immediately—wary, defensive, waiting for whatever comes next.
I don’t say anything.
I just move toward her, careful and deliberate, and lift her off the table. She doesn’t fight this time. Just lets me carry her out to the car, silent and small in my arms.
The drive back to my place is quiet.
She stares out the window, breathing shallow, lost somewhere I can’t follow.
I glance at her every few seconds. Checking. Making sure she’s still conscious. Still here.
“Will you tell me who did this to you?” I ask finally.
Silence.
“Ayla.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
She turns her head, meets my eyes for just a second before looking away again.
“Why?” she asks quietly. “Why do you care?”
I don’t have an answer that makes sense.
I don’t have words for whatever the fuck this is between us.
So I tell her the only truth I know.
“Because I’m keeping you.”
Her breath catches. “You’re not—”
“Yes, I am.”
Chapter 18
Ayla
Ishould argue. Should tell him he’s insane. That he can’t just decide to keep a person like I’m something he picked up at a store.
But I’m too tired.
Bone tired.
And some twisted part of me—the part that’s been surviving on scraps and violence and fear for years, whispers that maybe being with him is safer than being alone where Gabriel can get me.
I hate that part of myself.
He’s going to be pissed I lost my phone.
He glances at me, those blue eyes catching light from passing streetlamps. “Still not going to tell me who’s been using you as a punching bag? Or why you work three jobs and still can’t afford to eat? You’re hiding something that scares you more than I do.”
