My gaze falls to her side, and she shifts a little.
“Ok.” I push off the bed, moving toward the bathroom to allow her lots of space to enter. “Come in here. The light is better.”
It takes her another second, and I wait. She crosses my room to the bathroom, stopping between the two sinks and facing the mirror.
I stand behind her, and she stares, unmoving, at my reflection. “Ryder.”
Her eyes focus on me more intently.
“Show me.”
I don’t move a muscle, waiting for permission to see and touch her. I feel more than see her exhale. Her eyes fall closed briefly as she releases her fists. Both shoulders roll forward as she reaches for the hem of her shirt and slowly inches it up, wincing in the process.
I keep my eyes on hers in the mirror, letting her know it’s ok.
When her hands stop moving, I hold her gaze.
“Ok?”
When she nods subtly, I allow my eyes to drop to her side.
I ease out a slow breath as my hands round into fists, wanting at whoever did this.
A long, sickle-like cut begins two inches from her belly button, climbs up her side, and ends near her shoulder blade underneath her sports bra.
Her body goes rigid as I bend to get a better look.
“My stomach is just a graze, but my side and back. . . I can’t. . . ” Her shaky voice stops me, but as I search her eyes again, something shifts in them.
“I kicked his sick ass straight into a mirror. He got me before my boot broke his jaw, along with some teeth.”
I straighten behind her. The justice in her tone gives me a minor amount of satisfaction, but her casualness confirms this is her life.
Her tone softens. “Can you see if there are any shards and how bad it is?”
I pull myself from the impossibility of it all and get to work.
“Sure.” I bend, taking a closer look. “I’m gonna touch you. Ok?”
She nods, her eyes falling closed as I run my fingers along the broken skin, inspecting the cut that gets deeper the higher it climbs. When I get to the edge of her bra, I stop. Blood stains the white material.
“I need to lift—”
Her eyes snap open, and she stares at her own reflection. I feel her ribs rise and fall this time. After a second, she raises her arm higher, her gaze dropping to the counter.
I slide my fingers under the stretchy band, but before I can get a peek at the cut, my eyes snag on a burn scar under her arm. Four bars of varying widths in a row.
Her gaze remains set on the counter as her body tenses and goosebumps prickle her skin.
I pull her bra away enough to see the open wound, and fresh blood seeps to the surface. It’s not as deep as I worried it might be, and it looks clean.
“I don’t think you need stitches, but I’ve got to find a bandage.”
She nods subtly, and I gently release the fabric to rummage through my drawers. I find a smashed box of Band-Aids and make quick work of pulling off wrappers on the largest ones and stacking one on top of another.
A chill runs through Ryder as I place the second one, and she shivers.
I toss the garbage in the trash as she pulls her shirt back down.
