Chapter 3 #2
Braced against the cabinet under the sink, one leg twisted awkwardly beneath her.
Gauze tangles around her right hand. The wound on her shoulder seeps fresh blood—not a lot, but enough to stain the collar of Nova's sweater bright red.
The antiseptic bottle lies on its side, leaking into the bathmat.
Butterfly bandages scatter across the tile.
She looks up at me, jaw clenched, eyes bright with fury and shame.
"I had it under control."
"Clearly."
"I almost—"
"You almost cracked your head open on the sink." I crouch down, and she's smaller than I realized. Crumpled against the cabinet, fingers tangled in gauze where she'd been trying to do this herself. "Let me see your hand."
"I can—"
"You can't." I take her wrist. Her pulse jumps under my thumb. "Hold still."
The gauze has wound around three of her fingers, pulled tight enough to cut off circulation. I work it loose, careful not to tear the skin. Her hand is half the size of mine, fine-boned and soft.
She's watching me. I can feel it.
"Can you stand?"
"I think my foot's asleep."
"That's the leg you're sitting on." I finish with the gauze, toss it aside. "I'm going to help you up. That okay?"
A beat. Then she nods.
I slide one hand under her arm, the other at her waist. She's warm through Nova's sweater. Lighter than I expected when I lift her—barely any weight at all.
I set her on the edge of the tub. Step back. Put distance between us.
Her cheeks are flushed. She's not looking at me.
"Let me see the shoulder. Then you can go back to hating me."
She doesn't argue. Doesn't move. Just sits there with her jaw tight and her eyes too bright.
The bathroom is small. Too small for me under normal circumstances, and with her perched on the edge of the tub, there's nowhere to go. I wash my hands in the sink. Gather what's salvageable from the mess on the floor. Move slowly, telegraphing every motion so she can track me.
"I'm going to clean it first. The antiseptic will sting."
A tight nod.
I crouch in front of her. The wound has torn open slightly where she'd been twisting to reach it—not bad, but enough to bleed. She'd been trying to change the bandage herself and lost her balance. Probably caught her foot on the bathmat. Probably hit the cabinet on the way down.
She's stubborn. Too stubborn to ask for help until she was bleeding on the floor.
I clean the blood away with a damp cloth. She hisses through her teeth but doesn't pull back. Doesn't flinch. Just sits there, rigid, enduring.
"The angle's a bitch," I say. "Should've asked for help."
"I don't like asking for help."
"Noticed."
I apply antiseptic. She tenses—every muscle in her body locking up—and I wait. Let her breathe through the sting. Don't rush.
The bathroom has gotten too warm. I'm crouched in front of her, close enough to see the pulse jumping in her throat. Close enough to smell soap and sweat and skin.
I ease the collar of her sweater aside. Her shoulder is bare now, the wound exposed. The skin there is flushed pink, impossibly soft under my fingers. I can feel the heat of her. The fine tremor running through her that she's trying to hide.
Fresh gauze. Medical tape. My hands dwarf the supplies, dwarf her shoulder, dwarf everything about her. I could break her without trying. Could snap her collarbone with one careless squeeze. Could—
I tape down the edges of the gauze with hands that barely shake. Step back. Give her room to breathe.
"Done."
She exhales. I didn't realize she'd been holding her breath.
She doesn't pull the sweater back up. Just sits there with her shoulder bare, skin still flushed where I touched her. Her throat works. When she looks at me, her eyes have gone dark.
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
"Same time tomorrow," I say. "But next time, just ask."
She doesn't answer.
I leave.
The afternoon drags. She goes back to her books. I go back to pretending to fix things.
At some point, the silence shifts and softens. I catch her turning pages instead of staring at them. Her shoulders have dropped an inch. She's settling.
I'm under the sink again—checking the pipes, keeping my hands busy—when I realize I need the smaller screwdriver. Left it on the counter.
I stand without thinking. Cross the kitchen.
She's at the window, back to me, staring at the tree line.
I'm two feet away when she turns.
Her eyes go wide. Not startled—terrified.
I'm too close. Came up behind her without thinking, without announcing myself, and now her body doesn't see me—it sees them. The men who found her. The hands that hurt her. Whatever happened in that safe house in Atlanta that she can't outrun no matter how far she goes.
She doesn't scream. Doesn't run.
She freezes.
Every muscle locks. Her breath stops mid-inhale. Her eyes fix on a point past my shoulder—on nothing. On whatever's playing behind her eyes.
Fuck.
I step back slowly, hands up where she can see them.
"Eden." I keep my voice low. Calm. "You're in Shadow Ridge. You're in the cottage. You're safe."
Nothing. She's not hearing me. She's gone.
"Eden. I need you to breathe."
Her chest isn't moving.
"In through your nose. Can you do that for me? Just one breath."
Nothing. Her whole body trembles, fine shakes she can't control.
I want to touch her. Want to grab her shoulders and shake her back to the present, back to me. But touch is the last thing she needs right now. Touch is what put her here.
"I'm going to step back," I say. "I'm going to move to the other side of the room. I'm not going to touch you. I'm not going to come any closer."
I take another step back. Then another. Put the whole kitchen between us.
"There's no one here but us. The doors are locked. The windows are locked. I checked them an hour ago."
Her eyes find mine. The first sign she's hearing me.
"You're safe. I know it doesn't feel like it, but you are. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you."
Her chest moves. Not much, but it moves.
"That's good. Keep breathing."
Another breath. Deeper. Her hands unclench—I hadn't noticed she'd made fists—and I watch her come back to herself in pieces. The breathing first. Then her eyes finding mine. Then the awful, crushing awareness of what just happened.
Her face crumples.
"I'm fine." Her voice breaks on it. "I'm sorry, I'm fine, I just—"
"You don't have to explain."
"I don't usually—" She presses her palms to her eyes. "God. I'm sorry."
"Stop apologizing."
She takes another breath. Drops her hands. When she looks at me, her eyes are dry but devastated.
"I'm fine. Really. It was nothing."
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"You're fine. It was nothing." I move to the counter—slowly, giving her time to track me—and pick up the screwdriver. "I'm going to finish this cabinet. You need anything, I'm right here."
She stares at me. Waiting for the questions. The pity. The are you sure you're okay that really means you're broken and we both know it.
It doesn't come.
"I'm going to..." She gestures toward the bedroom. "I need a minute."
"Take your time."
She disappears down the hall. The door closes. Through the wall, I hear the creak of the mattress as she lands on it. Then silence. Then a sound so small I almost miss it—a muffled sob, pressed into the pillow.
I sink to the kitchen floor. Stare at the pipes I don't give a shit about.
My hands are shaking.
I scared her. Not some faceless threat—me. My size. My carelessness.
This is why I don't do this. Don't let people close.
Better I be an asshole than she end up dead.
I should have remembered that before I agreed to keep her safe.
***
She emerges an hour later. Neither of us mentions it.
I cook dinner—pork chops, nothing fancy. Just meat in a pan, some butter, garlic, whatever herbs I could find.
She eats more than she did at breakfast. Cleans her plate without me having to push.
"This is good," she says quietly.
"It's just pork."
"Still good."
Neither of us moves to clear the plates. She traces a finger along the edge of her empty plate, and I wonder what it would be like to do this every night. Cook for someone. Sit across from them. Watch them stop being afraid of me.
We wash dishes in silence. I hand her plates to dry, careful to make sure she sees my hands coming. She takes them without flinching.
When she heads to bed, she pauses in the doorway.
"Diesel."
"Yeah."
"Thank you." She doesn't say for what. "For not making it weird."
"Nothing weird about it."
She almost smiles. Holds my gaze a beat too long.
Then the door closes behind her.
I stand in the kitchen and listen for the lock.
It doesn't come.