“You’re at The Hollow,” I add. “Upstairs. Door’s locked. Windows are locked. I’m here.”
Her fingers curl tighter at her throat.
Then loosen.
I sit beside her and let the silence do what silence does when it isn’t being used as a weapon.
After a minute, she leans sideways, enough that her shoulder touches my arm.
I stay exactly where I am.
She takes one breath. Then another. Then one that almost makes it all the way down.
“That one was bad,” she whispers.
I nod once. “I know.”
Not because I saw it, but because I can feel the aftermath in the room.
She wipes quickly under one eye because the tears annoy her personally. “I hate this.”
“Yeah.”
“I feel…” She stops. Tries again. “I feel stupid, because I know I’m here. I know I’m safe. But my body keeps acting like?—”
“Like it doesn’t know yet.”
Her eyes lift to mine.
“It’ll catch up.”
There’s a long pause. “You say that like you’re sure.”
“I’m sure it can.”
She looks down at her hands.
The bruises are lighter. The skin there is still angry in places. She turns one wrist over and traces the mark with her thumb as if it belongs to someone else.
Without thinking, I reach for the glass of water on her nightstand and hand it to her.
She takes it. Drinks. Breathes.
When she’s done, I set it back and stay there beside her until the panic works itself out of her system enough for her shoulders to drop.
Eventually, she lies back down.
I pull the blanket up over her and make sure the lamp’s still angled the way she likes it. Not in her eyes, but bright enough to see the room.
Her voice catches me as I stand. “Zane?”
I look back.
She’s already half curled under the blanket, hair a mess around her face, looking wrung out and brave at the same time.
“Thank you.”
I nod once. “Get some sleep.”
