2. The blame game begins
Chapter 2
The blame game begins
T O MER
T he entire drive home from Redleg, all I can do is recite the same two sentences in my mind on a loop.
She’s safe. She’s gonna be okay.
She’s safe, and she’s fucking gonna be okay.
While she sleeps, her hand rests on top of my thigh. Whether she’s reassuring herself or me is unclear. But I’m grateful for that simple touch.
I’ve never seen my sweet girl look like this.
It’s not only the physical wounds. It’s deeper.
Weary to the bone. Battered in the truest sense of the word.
Her posture and demeanor remind me of my fellow soldiers when we returned to base from our first mission. Shell-shocked, bloodied, and, for some... broken.
Lettie’s torment is more than I can probably fathom, despite my own fucked-up existence in life and the cruel acts I’ve endured.
It’s not only the cuts, welts, and dried blood on her skin showcasing her trauma. And it’s not the remnants of the makeup she wore to the club on Friday night streaked down her cheeks. Not the red around her eyes or the paleness of her face.
The real tragedy hides deeper, way below her bruised and beaten flesh.
Pain . Lots of it.
Not only from the physical injuries. Those will heal.
It’s the buried pain that’ll have lasting effects.
That’s what worries me the most.
The worst part of it all? I know she’s going to have plenty of difficult questions for me. And if I answer her honestly, her agony will only increase.
That’s why I need to hold off her inquisition as long as possible.
In the past, I’ve managed to avoid lying outright, simply deflecting or answering indirectly. I know it’s still wrong, but it helped ease my fucked-up conscience. After all this, I might have to lie flat out.
And it fucking sucks.
Now is the worst time to confess to her why they kept calling me T and why Boss shouted my real name as we left the office. I hate the idea of telling her how Mia was tracking her all along, same as I was. And I damn sure don’t want to tell her I’ve known her father this entire time and kept it a secret.
All I need is more time.
Time to help her heal. To prepare her.
Same as I’ve been aiming to prepare Big Al.
When I pull into my driveway and throw it in park, she startles awake. A relieved sigh passes her lips when she sees me.
“We’re home, Lettie baby.”
She reaches across her body to unhook her seat belt. Her face winces in pain, and she hisses through her teeth.
“Where does it hurt?”
Her eyes land on mine. Although she attempts to fight back her grimace, she fails. “If I’m being honest, everywhere. But it’s mostly my lower chest. I think they bruised my ribs.”
A guttural snarl tears through me, but I manage to hold it inside. The last thing she needs is to feel bad about my reaction. Knowing her, she’ll feel guilty about causing me pain. That would be madness, but I know how she thinks.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to take you to the hospital? We can get you changed and take you to a different one so you’re not where the other girls are.”
Canting her head to the side, she gives it a subtle shake. “I’m sure. I’ll heal. They don’t do anything for ribs, anyhow, which I know from experience. Calamity Lettie and all. Tonight, all I want to do is shower for about two hours straight in scalding hot water. And have something to eat and drink. I’m so hungry I could eat the north end of a southbound polecat.”
I was so worried about getting her out of Redleg before my deceit imploded on us that I didn’t even think of her needing to eat or drink something. Fuck.
In the back of my mind, I wonder if letting her shower is the best idea. We need to take her to the hospital, and they’ll want to do a rape kit. If she washes away any evidence...
I promptly halt my thoughts, because finishing them feels like agony. The more I acknowledge what’s happened to her, the more the rage inside me swells.
Fuck the evidence.
She wants to be clean. I’ll clean her. End of discussion.
We don’t need evidence, because there will be no trial.
I will be the judge, jury, and motherfucking executioner.
When she sighs and resumes taking off her seat belt, I blink twice and remind myself that this is not the time for that line of thinking. Right now, it’s all about Lettie. I need to ensure she’s clean, fed, and comfortable. After that, I’ll tend to her injuries.
Once that’s all taken care of, I’ll figure out how to work on the wounds we can’t see. The ones deep inside her. The scars that will rival my own trauma, eventually far surpassing it.
One thing’s certain. I’m not equipped to deal with the emotional struggles she’s facing, at least not with a clear mind.
As it is, I’m battling the urge to let my fury blind me.
When she winces in pain exiting the car, it becomes easier to focus on caring for her, as if an instinct takes over.
My arsenal for handling things like this is limited to two situations—skills used while deployed and those from my role as a Dom. Lettie won’t respond to the same treatment one would give an injured soldier—not for her physical ailments, at least. So I’ll treat this like an after-care situation.
A well and truly fucked one.
“Wait right there, sugar. I’ll help you out.”
She doesn’t fight me, only gives me a solemn nod.
Moving swiftly, I dash around the car. After gingerly helping her out, I bring her into the house and lock the door behind us. She’s walking fine, albeit slowly.
“Head on down to the bathroom. I’ll grab you some water and crackers so you have something in your belly. I’ll meet you in there.”
Releasing my hand, she takes two steps toward the hallway before freezing. Her spine goes ramrod straight, and she balls her fists at her sides.
I close the distance between us in one large step. “What’s wrong? You don’t want crackers? What do you want? Some toast? Grilled cheese? I think something light is best to start.”
Instead of answering, she opts for avoidance. “I’ll go with you into the kitchen.”
She takes a tentative step, her fists unclenching. Meeting my eyes, she reaches for me and laces her fingers through mine.
Then it hits me. Fuck.
She’s scared to be alone.
Even in my house, she’s too terrified to be a room away from me.
Sadness burns a trail from my stomach to my heart.
My independent, stubborn, vivacious butterfly... her wings have been clipped.
No. This is only temporary , I scold myself.
Torn between getting her started on washing the filth away and getting her sustenance, I decide to bring her with me into the kitchen. I work fast, filling a glass with cold water and grabbing a package of peanut butter crackers from the cupboard.
Still and silent, she watches my every move. Her face remains blank and impassive, and her posture is crumpled, resembling a wilting flower.
And it breaks my motherfucking heart.
I meant what I said to her back at Redleg. I will fix this. I’ll make this right.
Somehow.
As I hand her the water, there’s a tremor in her delicate fingers. When the rim of the glass reaches her chapped lips, she starts with a timid sip. Once the first few drops hit her mouth, she gasps in relief. That tiny sip quickly transforms into heaping gulps.
“Easy, baby. Don’t drink too fast. You don’t want to get sick.”
She finishes the entire glass in a matter of seconds. “Ahh,” she rasps. “I didn’t realize how thirsty I was.”
Fuck. She was parched all this time. I’ve been with her for over an hour and haven’t seen to her physical needs.
My throat scratches, as if the guilt is trying to crawl out. I need to shift my thoughts off my pain and sadness and focus on what matters.
Her.
Mentally cataloging her most immediate needs, I attempt to prioritize them.
Pain. Water. Food. Bathe. Infection prevention. Clean clothes. Rest.
That’s what I can manage right now. Everything else must wait.
“How’s your stomach feeling? Did you eat while you were, um...” I can’t fucking finish my sentence due to the acid eating away at my innards as images of her in that disgusting cesspool ravage my psyche.
She had to live it, and I can’t even say the fucking words.
Before she can answer, she sprints to the trash can. Bending at the waist, she heaves out the only fluids she’s probably had in days.
Without conscious thought, I bolt across the room, operating on autopilot to comfort her. I pull her hair out of her face, holding it at her nape. With my other hand, I rub her back in soothing circles.
When she’s done, she straightens her frame. I let her hair go and hand her a paper towel to wipe her mouth.
“Thank you,” she whispers, taking it from me. “I’m sorry about that.”
“There are those manners,” I tease on reflex. It’s an automatic response after a year of her thanking me for every damn thing.
“Perhaps I should have listened to you and gone slower.” There’s a hint of humor in her tone, reminding me that my sugar bear is still in there somewhere.
How could they fucking do this to her?
When I find them, I will fucking starve them of food, drink, light, and sleep for days on end.
I put a couple of ounces of water in her glass from the tap. “Here. Rinse your mouth.”
Taking the glass from me, she ambles to the sink to comply. Once she’s finished, she peers at me through gloomy eyes, with a questioning quirk of her brows. “Can I have some more water, or should I not drink again?”
I offer a quick nod, then refill the glass halfway. “Just sip it, sweetness. I know you’re thirsty, but go slow so you can hold it down.”
“Okay.” She takes it, her hands still trembling. This time, she heeds my advice.
After a few sips, she sets the glass on the counter and exhales shakily. Her eyes scan the kitchen, then glance toward the hallway. “As hungry as I am, I think I’ll wait on the crackers until after my shower. I don’t think I can eat until I brush my teeth anyhow.”
Fortunately, she has most of her toiletries and extra clothes here since she frequently sleeps over.
After I usher her into the bathroom, I strip off my shirt and turn on the spray. She doesn’t move to take off her clothes, merely lingering at my side, almost as if she’s lost. Is that exhaustion or something more?
Once I’m down to my boxers, I gradually approach, trying to get a better read on her. She’s locked in place, simply staring at the mirror. Her gaze rakes over her reflection, sweeping from side to side.
I do the same, noticing the cuts and bruises peeking out from her sleeves and over the stretched-out T-shirt collar. Although her skin is marred, it’ll never detract from her beauty. Nothing could ever dull her shine for long.
She stands there for what feels like a long time. Like a statue. A work of art, beautifully frozen in time, yet weathered and scarred by a punishing environment.
Without warning, her posture shifts, and she rolls her shoulders back. Her face grows more animated as her eyes scan the countertop and land on mine in the mirror. It’s like she’s snapped out of a fog. “You know what? I don’t think I have any contact lenses here.”
Odd thought to have.
And I know odd thoughts better than most.
Given how she was staring at herself in the mirror, perhaps she realized her vision isn’t clear.
“Do you know what strength your prescription is? I have some disposable lenses.”
Turning to face me, she casually drawls, “Let’s see. Does the forgetful one who hasn’t slept in days know the tiny numbers on the edge of her box of prescription contact lenses? I’m gonna go with no on that one, Einstein.”
The corner of my mouth threatens to quirk in amusement. Although there’s not a damn thing funny about tonight, she still makes me smile.
Of all the people in the world for this to happen to, Lettie’s the least deserving.
“I’ll grab the lenses after our shower, and you can try them. If they don’t work, we can call Freya to bring some over in the morning.”
As soon as her name passes my lips, it dawns on me that Freya’s probably anxiously waiting for news about her friend.
Lettie’s face scrunches, and her hands fly up to cup her mouth. “Oh my gosh. Poor Freya! She’s got to be worried sick about me. Does she know what happened?”
Blinking frantically, she shakes her head and continues rambling. “On Friday night, I told her I wouldn’t be home all weekend. What day is it? How long was I gone? I don’t have my phone, so I can’t text her to let her know I’m all right.”
Seeing that she’s starting to get worked up, I attempt to calm her. “Shh, it’s okay. I’ll let her know you’re safe.”
I take a deep breath, gripping her softly by the arms, encouraging her to focus on me. She does, closing her eyes and breathing in time with me.
“Now, to answer your other questions. Let’s see. It’s late Monday night, so you were gone for three days. Yes, Freya knows you were missing. She thought you were with me all weekend, and I thought you were with her. She messaged me this afternoon, wondering if you were coming home before work since you weren’t answering your phone. That’s when we realized you were in danger. She filed the police report while I got to work looking for you. As soon as we had your location, I brought in the team to get you out.”
Her lips round into an O shape as she exhales delicately. Tension seems to fade from her expression.
“After we shower, we’ll call Freya. Okay?”
She jerks her head from side to side. “No. Now . Can you message her now? I don’t want her to worry unnecessarily.”
My eyes bulge. “Unnecessarily ? She fucking left you alone in a nightclub. She deserves to worry,” I quip sardonically, venom lacing my tone. “Freya can wait. Let’s focus on you first.”
Now that Lettie is back with me, my fury at Freya returns. She’s been around the block a while. She knows better than to do something that fucking asinine.
“Don’t be mad at her,” Lettie begs, putting her palms on my bare chest. “It was my fault.” Her face contorts, and her lips twist to one side. “Actually, that’s not entirely true.” She sniffles, gasping a little like she’s fighting a sob. “It was also,” the sob breaks through, “Vanessa’s fault. She was...”
Her words trail off as she grows too restless to continue. She tugs at the hem of that ripped T-shirt with one hand and twirls the ends of her dirty, disheveled hair with the other. Backing away from me, she starts pacing in small circles and muttering under her breath.
Son of a bitch .
I’m supposed to keep her calm, not work her up.
Snapping back into the moment, I stand in front of her to halt her pacing. “Sugar bear, focus on me. It’s okay. I’ve got you. Let’s get into the shower. Plenty of time for you to tell me what happened afterward. I want to know everything, but right now, I need to take care of you.”
“But Freya first. She needs to?—”
“All right. I’ll text her first.”
Bending down, I scoop up my pants to retrieve my cell from the pocket. I’m taken aback when I realize there’s three of them in there—two are mine, and the third is from that trafficker I left bloody on the dirty carpet.
Should have killed him before she stopped me. If only Kri would have gotten Lettie out when I told her to.
I shake it off and shove the other two phones back into a pocket, keeping my personal cell in my palm. Without caring, I let the pants fall to the floor. The thud of the phones hitting the tile is slightly muffled by the fabric.
Unbelievable. I’m so fucking distracted that I see no problem in letting the devices clatter onto the floor. Not to mention how I usually keep my work cell nearby. What if someone at Redleg needs me?
For the first time, I don’t give a fuck. It just goes to show where my priorities are. The only thing that matters is taking care of my girl.
To ease her tension over Freya, I begin tapping out the message but freeze one sentence in. Perhaps she’d rather speak to her.
Glancing up, I find Lettie watching me with apprehension coating her entire body. Her shoulders are stiff, her brow is furrowed, and her lower lip is crimped between her teeth.
I offer her the phone. “Would you rather talk to her? I was just gonna text her, but if you’d prefer to speak to her?—”
“I-I-I,” she stammers. “Part of me wants to talk to her, but a bigger part of me doesn’t.”
I know you hate phone calls, Lettie, but come on.
As if she’s reading my mind, she responds to my unspoken thought. “It’s not because it’s a phone call. It’s that I feel horrible for what I’ve done to her. She must’ve been beside herself when she realized what happened. And you too. It’s all my fault. I’m so sorry.”
I shake my head, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. Wrong or right, her feelings are valid. I don’t want to stop her from having them and working through this. Although I disagree wholeheartedly, I shouldn’t dismiss her viewpoint.
“We’ll talk more about how it’s not your fault later, sweetness. Nothing you did gave them the right to do this to you. For now, I’ll text Freya to tell her you’re safe with me so she stops worrying. I’ll also tell her we’ll call her tomorrow morning. After that, I’m getting you cleaned and fed.”
Her chest caves with a haggard exhale. Tears fill her eyes, quickly overflowing and spilling down her cheeks.
After I quickly finish the text and hit send, I set the phone down on the counter and bring her back into my embrace. “What is it, baby? Talk to me so I can help you.”
Her chin wobbles, and her voice quavers. She refuses to meet my eyes. “I’m so sorry for what I did to you both. I’m so sorry.”
Cupping her cheeks, I lower myself to her eye level. “It wasn’t your fault, Violet. You have nothing to be sorry for. And I promise you they’ll pay for what they did. They’ll never hurt you again. They’ll never hurt anyone again. But it was not your fault. Do you understand me?”
She sniffles, fighting to stave off another onslaught of tears. Her tiny nods gradually grow slower and more pronounced.
Once she’s a bit calmer, I tug at the dirty T-shirt. “Let’s get this off.”
I’m gonna fucking burn it later.
At first, she lets me lift it. But I only get it up to her waist before she stops me, locking her hands on my wrists. “Wait.”
“What is it?”
“I’m not,” she gulps, then closes her eyes, “I’m not sure what I’ll look like naked.”
Vitriol coats my insides, thick and viscous. I need to tap into my old habit of compartmentalizing and shoving emotions away so I don’t frighten or upset her with my rage. Because it’s about to boil over.
In a whisper to camouflage my building wrath, I say, “I don’t give a fuck what you look like. You are perfect to me. Always have been. And always will be. Nothing that happened to you this weekend could change that.”
She forces out a sharp exhale, finally opening her eyes. When she sees that the sincerity in my expression matches my tone, she releases my hands.
With an artificial calmness, I pull off her shirt.
I tap into every ounce of willpower to avoid looking, but I fail. I need to see what made her afraid to show me her body. Slowly, my eyes travel down her torso.
And I see red.