Chapter Five #2
Tears spill down her cheeks as she shrugs.
Spike nods in return, his jaw hardening. “Okay. We can handle this one of two ways. We take you to the hospital. A rape kit gets done. Police are notified. They hunt this bastard down.”
“Or,” I add quietly, “we take you to Patch. He does the exams. Gives you the meds you need. And you let the Shadows handle finding the fucker.”
“Either way,” a voice rumbles from behind us, “he dies.”
I turn.
Bones. Crusher. Skip. Foster.
All of them here.
“The only difference,” Spike says coldly, “is how fast.”
He meets her eyes again.
“Either the system puts him in a cage and someone finishes it quick… or we find him ourselves.”
“And we make it slow.”
Abigail looks up at me and gives a small, sad smile.
“The dreams started again,” she says, and I know she’s deflecting.
“Baby,” I murmur, carefully cupping her face. There are a few shallow cuts along her cheeks, nothing deep, but seeing them still twists something ugly in my chest. “Hospital or Patch?”
“Home,” she says, clutching the sheet tighter around herself. “Safety.”
“I brought the wagon,” Bones says. “Didn’t know what shape she’d be in or if we’d have more bodies to haul back.”
“Send a prospect for my bike,” I tell Skip. He nods and pulls out his phone without question.
“Come on, sweet girl,” I say gently, guiding her toward the door. “Let’s get you home.”
“Foster,” Spike starts.
“Don’t even need to finish,” Foster cuts in. “I’m already on it. Nothing else in this world matters right now. I’ll find the fucker who did this to our princess.”
“I’m really tired,” Abigail murmurs once I get her settled safely inside the wagon.
“Blood loss?” Foster asks as he slides into the front passenger seat.
“There wasn’t much blood on the sheets, and it doesn’t look like the cuts are too deep,” I say, knowing very well the fucker might have cleaned up afterward. “But Abigail… if Patch says you’ve lost too much blood, we are going to the hospital. No arguments.”
She nods faintly, then her lip trembles.
“I think I said yes,” she whispers, tears spilling fresh down her cheeks. “I think I gave him my consent at the bar. I was drunk… but I left with him willingly.”
My heart breaks clean in half.
I lean close, keeping my voice steady, unshakable.
“Listen to me,” I say firmly. “You were drunk. That is not consent. Not legally. Not morally. Not in any world that matters.”
Her breath stutters.
“You didn’t do this,” I continue. “Nothing about this is your fault. Not a single damn part of it.”
I brush my thumb carefully over her temple, nowhere near the cuts.
“I said yes, Tank,” she says again. Tears slide down her face and drop on the sheet, but her eyes are distant. Hollow. “I asked him if he was going to take my virginity, and then I left with him.”
The word hits me like a bullet.
Virginity.
My breath leaves my body in a violent rush, like someone just punched me straight in the chest.
“I held onto it,” she continues quietly, staring at the back of the driver’s seat. “For someone special. I thought that mattered.”
My jaw tightens.
“I thought if I waited… if I stayed pure enough, innocent enough, eventually someone would choose me.” Her mouth curves in a sad, humorless smile. “But all it ever did was push people away.”
The word pure echoes in my head like a gunshot.
Too pure. Too innocent.
My words.
The ones I used every time to keep her at arm’s length. Every time I told myself I was protecting her instead of just being afraid.
She swallows hard.
“So I thought maybe if I stopped being that…if I stopped being the girl no one wanted to touch…then maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much anymore.”
My chest burns.
I say nothing, because if I speak, I might shatter the fragile calm she’s clinging to.
And because the truth is crashing down on me all at once.
She didn’t give herself to a stranger because she wanted him.
She did it because I taught her that what made her gentle made her unlovable.
Every push. Every ignored call and text. Every rejection. I built the road that led her straight into the hands of a rapist.
If I had just accepted what I felt.
If I had made her mine instead of pushing her away.
If I had chosen her the way she deserved.
None of this would have happened.
The rage isn’t loud. It doesn’t explode.
It sinks deep. Heavy. Permanent.
I lean closer, careful not to jostle her, my voice low and steady.
“Abigail,” I say quietly. “Nothing about you was ever wrong. Not your softness. Not your innocence. Not the way you loved.”
Her lip trembles.
“And nothing you were,” I continue, “gave anyone the right to hurt you.”
She finally looks at me then, eyes glassy, searching.
I meet her gaze and hold it.
And I make myself a silent promise I will carry for the rest of my life.
I will never let her believe she has to break herself to be chosen again.
Not by me.
Not by anyone.
“I’m so fucking sorry, baby,” I say, not caring that my voice breaks. “None of this would’ve happened if I’d just admitted how much I love you. I was stupid. I thought I was doing what was best for you, but all I did was make us both miserable.”
I swallow hard.
“I’ve always chosen you, Abigail. I just didn’t realize that pushing you away would also push you away from your family. That ends now. I’m done doing that. You’re mine, sweet girl, and I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of you.”
She looks at me then.
For a split second, hope flickers in her eyes.
And then it dies.
“I’ve dreamed of this moment,” she whispers. “I’ve prayed for the day you finally realized we were meant to be together.”
I nod, my chest tight.
“But it’s too late now.”
The words are quiet. Final.
She turns away from me and looks out the window.
And for the first time, I understand something that terrifies me more than losing her ever did. Something I think she learned by me not admitting I loved her back.
Love doesn’t always get to be enough.