Chapter 13
Irun the shower hot enough to turn my skin red, scrub my body raw, and shampoo three times, because cleaning away the evidence gives my brain a task it can actually handle.
Because when I stop focusing on showering, my mind keeps replaying the attack.
How could it have gone so horribly wrong?
What could I have done better? Was there another way to stop the attack without someone ending up dead?
Scrubbing shuts out the part of my brain insisting that I got sloppy.
That I allowed Orien to distract me. That this was my fault.
Only the water turning cold forces me to stop.
When I finally turn the water off, I don’t immediately reach for a towel. The dead weight of exhaustion turns even that simple movement into a chore. Thick steam fills the bathroom, the air almost unbreathable as my attention settles on the drain where pink-tinged water swirled away moments ago.
No blood remains. No evidence. Only clean, washed skin.
The stain lingers anyway.
My phone buzzes somewhere in the main room, the sound muffled through the door. Probably Alexei, wondering where I am and why I didn’t show up to the family meeting I was supposed to attend this afternoon.
Was it really only today? So much has happened that the memory already seems distant.
The bathroom is still too hot, sweat beading on my skin. I grab a towel and scrub myself dry with rough strokes that border on pain, checking my skin for missed evidence I somehow overlooked.
Every inch comes up clean.
By the time I finish, the mirror has cleared enough for my reflection to emerge.
My eyes appear huge, pupils dilated, whites showing all the way around.
My hair stands up in damp spikes, and a bruise purples my jaw where I landed on the kitchen tile.
Darkening, finger-shaped marks ring my throat, impossible to misinterpret.
I drop the towel and reach for the clothes I set on the closed toilet seat. Soft gray sweatpants with a drawstring waist, an oversized T-shirt that falls past my hips, and thick socks for my cold feet. Nothing requiring decisions or effort. Nothing demanding thought.
My backup nape guard sits beside the clothes, and I clip it on first, the heavy metal plate settling at the back of my neck and offering a semblance of protection. At least this can’t be taken from me.
I dress with numb fingers, the clothes rough on my too-sensitive skin. My ears ring with a high, thin note that won’t go away, and my stomach turns over with each deep breath.
When I finally open the bathroom door, the cool air of the apartment hits my overheated skin, and I shiver.
The small studio resembles a war zone. My drawer systems, which supported my desktop, look out of place without the glass piece connecting them.
The bookshelf lists to the side, books scattered across the floor. A lamp lies broken, its shade crushed.
At least no visible blood remains. Only what could be found with a UV light.
My stomach turns over, and I have to grip the doorframe to stay upright. Three steps take me to the kitchen, where I grab the bottle of whiskey Saint bought, and three more take me to the bed on the far wall.
I unscrew the cap with shaking hands and take a long pull straight from the bottle. The alcohol burns my throat, settles warm and heavy in my stomach, and I take another drink before I remember to breathe.
The fox sits in the center of my rumpled comforter.
I have no memory of moving it. The last I remember, it was on the floor by the door, where I’d dropped it when the Alpha came at me.
I stare at it for a moment, at its stitched smile fixed in place.
Then I crawl onto the bed and pull it to my chest, tuck my face into its synthetic fur, and curl around it with the bottle still clutched in one hand.
Bleach, copper, and fear permeate the air.
I close my eyes, but the Alpha flashes behind my eyelids. The moment his skull cracked on the counter plays on repeat, the sound of it echoing in my memory until I have to take another long pull from the bottle.
He was going to hurt me.
He was going to kill me.
The thought circles, a mantra I can’t escape. He was going to hurt me. He was going to kill me. He was going to—
I raise the whiskey again, but pause when I see how much I’ve already drunk and drop the bottle to the floor instead, my head already spinning from too much alcohol.
The tears come without warning, streaking down my cheeks to soak into the fox’s fur.
My chest heaves with each sob, the bruises along my ribs protesting with each indrawn breath, but I can’t force it to stop.
Once it starts, it consumes everything, as though I might cry until there’s nothing left of me.
I bury my face in the fox’s stuffed body and let it happen.
Time passes, marked only by the slow fade of light through my windows. I drift in and out, exhaustion pulling me under, only for a small noise from out in the hall or through the walls I share with my neighbors to jerk me back to consciousness, heart racing, hands shaking.
My phone buzzes again, and again, but I don’t move to check it. The world outside my apartment might as well be on another planet.
A key rattles in the lock. The sound of it turning, the door opening, and footsteps crossing the threshold.
I lift my head from the fox’s damp fur, blinking through swollen lids as Orien steps into the apartment.
He brings with him a to-go container in one hand, the aroma of food drifting from it, and a sheet of glass balanced beneath his other arm.
He locates me right away, his attention sweeping over me for injuries.
Relief floods through me at the sight of him, so strong it leaves me dizzy. My throat tightens, and a fresh wave of tears threatens, but I bite them back, not wanting him to see me break down again.
“Hey,” he murmurs into the quiet room. “You’re still here.”
My arms tighten around the fox. “I’m still here.”
He sets the takeout on the small table beside my kitchenette and props the glass against the wall. “Good. Stay there. I’ve got this.”
He disappears into the kitchen, and I don’t move, but I hear water running, the soft sound of cabinets opening and closing. When he returns, he carries a glass of water, which he sets on my nightstand within easy reach.
“Drink,” he says. “And try to eat. The whiskey’s not going to do you any favors tomorrow.”
I push myself up to sitting, my head swimming with the sudden movement. “Did you—”
“It’s done.” The simple statement carries a weight I can’t begin to quantify. “No one’s going to come looking for him. No one’s going to connect him to you.”
The knot in my chest loosens. “Thank you.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t thank me for that. Just…stay in bed. I need to finish up here. We can talk when I’m done.”
I curl deeper into the bedding, clinging to the stuffed fox, as Orien moves through the apartment. He doesn’t hover over me, doesn’t ask if I’m okay, doesn’t fill the silence with platitudes or reassurances. He cleans, and the mess disappears piece by piece.
The high whine of the vacuum cuts through the room.
Through half-lidded eyes, I follow Orien’s progress as he runs it along the baseboards, checking the corners and beneath furniture for any glass I might have tracked across the floor.
He moves with the practiced ease of someone who’s done this before, many times.
Satisfied he’s collected every shard of glass, Orien moves to the toppled bookshelf. He rights it, wipes down every surface, and begins collecting the scattered novels, checking each one for damage before returning it to its place.
My bookshelf is alphabetical by author and chronological by publication date.
It’s the only system that makes sense to me, the only way I can find what I’m looking for when I need it.
But Orien doesn’t know that. He puts them back in whatever order occurs to him, and I don’t have the energy to correct him.
Besides, it doesn’t matter. Nothing about my apartment’s organization matters.
He works through the kitchen, wiping down every surface with a solution that leaves my sinuses burning from across the room. Bleach cuts through the lingering copper tang of blood, overwhelming it until it becomes a memory, a ghost of violence erased by chemical clean.
Satisfied with the kitchen, Orien carries a bag to the door. “Ten minutes, and I’ll be done.”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
He leaves again, and the apartment settles into quiet once more. Outside my window, the sky darkens into night, and the streetlights flicker on one by one, their glow spreading across my ceiling.
I should turn on a lamp. I should peel myself off the mattress, change the sheets, wash away the evidence of my breakdown, do anything besides lie and wait for Orien to come back.
But exhaustion pins me to the mattress, my muscles leaden from the adrenaline crash, and the thought of leaving the relative safety of my bed sends a spike of panic through me.
So, I stay where I am, the fox held tight in my arms, and wait.
Orien returns twice more, ferrying supplies and trash between my apartment and the hallway.
The third time, he strides to the sheet of glass leaning against the wall, lifts it, and positions it over my drawer system.
He places my fallen laptop in the center and sets the lamp on the corner with a brand-new shade just like the original.
Reaching beneath it, he clicks on the light, and warm yellow fills the apartment.
It’s indistinguishable from the original. As if it were never broken at all.
He moves to the bathroom next, and I hear the water run again, the soft sound of more cleaning. When he emerges with a towel, he wipes down the doorframes, the light switches, the furniture, and anywhere else the Alpha might have touched in his attack.
It’s so complete I can almost believe it never happened.
Almost.