Chapter Forty-Four
Rylan
One Week Later
Savannah has been sleeping on and off for the entirety of the week, her body caught in a cycle of exhaustion and fragility. The state of her injuries—bruises, cuts, and the unmistakable signs of what they put her through—is exactly why we can’t risk a hospital. Too many questions, too many prying eyes. Instead, we brought a trusted doctor to the house, someone who knows how to assess the damage, treat her and keep their mouth shut.
She’s been put on IV antibiotics to treat the infections they inflicted on her and a steady drip of fluids and nutrition to allow her body the rest and nourishment it so desperately needs. Seeing her like this, so still and vulnerable, tears at my soul.
The Castillo Famiglia is no longer a threat. Every last one of them has been eliminated, except for a few lower-level men who managed to escape, but they pose no real danger. The storm is over—at least externally. Yet the damage they caused still festers in ways I can’t fix. My fists clench every time I think about what they put her through. It’s not enough that they’re gone. Their ghosts linger in her mind, and I would give anything to exorcise them for her.
Savannah’s sleep is plagued with nightmares. She thrashes, haunted by whatever horrors linger in her mind. All I can do is hold her close, stroke her hair, and whisper reassurances she likely barely hears. Sometimes she lets me comfort her, but other times she pulls away, lost in her own pain. It’s agonizing to watch her fight battles even in her rest. The cries she makes in her sleep pierce me to the core, leaving me helpless and wondering if I’ll ever be able to bring her the peace we found in our coastal hideaway again
By the eighth day, she’s a bit more alert. Her eyes stay open longer, and there’s a flicker of recognition when she looks at me. It’s a small victory, but I’ll take it. She doesn’t want me to leave her side. Every time I move, her hand reaches out as if to anchor me in place. Today, she surprised me by asking to take a bath. It’s the first request she’s made for herself since all of this began, and I jumped at the chance to give her something—anything—that might help her feel human again.
I help her into the bathroom. Her steps are hesitant and unsteady. Gently, I guide her as she removes her sleep shirt and shorts. Wrapping her in a towel to keep her warm, I turn to start filling the tub. The sound of the water hitting the porcelain breaks the silence, sharp and jarring. The noise causes her to flinch violently; her whole body tenses like a tightly coiled spring.
My chest tightens at the sight of her fear. I immediately turn off the water and kneel beside her, taking her cold, trembling hands in mine. “It’s okay,” I murmur softly. “You’re safe. I’ll be right here the whole time.”
She nods, though her eyes remain distant and haunted. I decide to change tactics, needing to show her there’s nothing to fear. “Here, watch me,” I say gently, stripping down to my boxers before climbing into the empty tub first. Once I’m settled, I reach over and turn the water back on, letting it flow softly around me to show her there’s nothing to be afraid of. I keep my movements slow and deliberate, letting her see it’s safe.
With my encouragement, she slowly steps forward, hesitating for just a moment before letting the towel drop from her grasp. She climbs into the tub, settling herself carefully between my legs as the warm water rises around us. Her frail body fits against mine like a fragile bird. My arms wrap around her gently, mindful of the bruises and healing wounds that mar her skin. Each mark tells a story I wish I could erase, and the sharpness of her bones against me is a cruel reminder of how much she’s endured.
She trembles in my embrace, silent tears slipping down her cheeks. Her sobs are quiet but cut through me like knives. I press soft kisses to her hair, her forehead, her shoulders, whispering the only words I can find. “I’ve got you, Savannah. You’re safe now. Nothing will ever happen to you again. I swear it.”
The words hang in the air, but they feel inadequate. There’s so much more I want to say, so much I’ve held back. The three words sitting heavily on my heart—I love you—threaten to spill out, but I hold them back. Not because they’re untrue, but because now isn’t the time. She doesn’t need the weight of my feelings added to her own. Instead, I pour every ounce of love into my actions—in the way I hold her, the way I refuse to let go, the way I stay.
Her tears come harder. Her body convulses against mine. I hold her tighter, my own emotions threatening to overwhelm me as I try to shield her from the memories that haunt her. Time will heal her physical wounds, but it’s the scars I can’t see that haunt me the most. Her body will heal, but it’s her spirit that I worry about—the part of her that laughs, fights and loves with everything she has. She’s so much more than the broken woman in my arms; she’s fierce, unyielding, and stronger than she knows. The light inside her may feel dimmed now, but I refuse to let it go out.
I stroke her back gently, trying to calm her. We stay like this for what feels like hours, wrapped in each other as the water cools around us. Her breathing eventually evens out, and I realize she’s fallen asleep against my chest. I don’t dare move. I’d stay in this tub forever if it meant giving her even a moment of peace.
As the stillness settles around us, I’m left with my thoughts. I’ve been so focused on eliminating the threats around her that I hadn’t prepared myself for this—for the aftermath. I want her to smile again, to laugh, to believe in her own strength. And I’ll do whatever it takes to help her find her way back, no matter how long it takes. She’s worth it. Every moment, every effort. She’s worth everything.