4. Tools of the trade
Chapter 4
Tools of the trade
TOMER
S he brushed her teeth for no less than seven minutes. That’s not an exaggeration. I checked the time after a while.
I dabbed some antibiotic ointment on her cuts and burns, applying a few bandages. Doesn’t look like she needs stitches, which is a relief. She declined the wrap around her ribs, and I can’t blame her for not wanting anything to touch her there.
After that, she let me cover her bruised and battered body with one of my T-shirts. She wanted to wear mine instead of her own pajamas from her drawer. She’s never done that before, always opting to wear her cute little matching sleepwear sets, most of which are in varying shades of purple.
While I make her a grilled cheese, she sits on the counter about a foot away. She started out at the kitchen table, sipping her water and watching me prep her sandwich. I suspect it was too far away. By the time the buttered bread was in the pan, she’d already eased over and asked me to help her up onto the counter.
Normally, she’d hop up herself, but she’s dog-ass tired. And hurt.
My sweet girl.
Mind racing, I stare at the pan without really seeing it. Horrible images fill my head instead.
Lettie in that house. For three damn days.
Those men around her and the other girls.
Doing the fuck knows what.
Cuts and bruises.
Fucking cigarette burns on her arm.
Welts on the backs of her upper thighs from what I suspect was a belt.
And the fucking bruises on her torso where she was clearly kicked. Repeatedly.
“James.”
It’s all so vivid I can practically smell the burn from the cigarettes they put out on her.
“Earth to James.”
Blinking twice, I look at her. “Sorry. What is it?”
“The sandwich.”
Her gaze slides from my face to the pan.
Where I’m burning her grilled cheese.
She’s the one who should be barely able to function. Not me. Jesus.
“Fuck. Sorry.” I flip it over to see if it’s salvageable. “Dammit. I’ll make a new one.”
“No, don’t. I like it that way,” she lies.
I arch a disbelieving brow at her. “You’re not very convincing.”
She holds out her plate. “Put it here, please. I’m famished, and it smells so freaking good. I don’t care if it’s charcoal. I’m eating it.”
Fighting a grin, I slide the sandwich onto her plate. “Want me to help you to the table?”
Shaking her head, she blows on the sandwich to cool it. “I’m fine here. The next time you move me, it better be straight to bed.”
Once she starts eating, she makes one of those precious moans.
Having spent most of my childhood years dealing with frequent hunger pangs, I know how amazing the first bite can be.
“Don’t eat too fast, sugar. Take it slow.”
She nods, licking the cheese off her fingertips and holding my gaze. “Can I have more water, please?”
Not bothering to answer, I retrieve her glass from the table and bring it to her. Too bad I don’t have electrolyte drinks or coconut water. I’ll order some for delivery once I get her to bed.
“Thank you.”
“Stop thanking me.”
She rolls her eyes. I’m relieved to see a touch of amusement behind her hazy blue irises. With her next bite of the sandwich, another moan leaves her sweet lips.
That’s it. I need to fucking kiss her.
Moving slowly to avoid startling her, I take the plate from her hand and set it on the counter.
Her whine of protest is cut off when I gingerly cup her cheeks and move in for a kiss. She tilts her head back and offers me her lips.
When our mouths converge, the gaping hole in my chest starts to stitch itself closed.
It’s not a sensual kiss. There’s no tongue. No grinding against each other. No roaming hands. This isn’t about sex or even passion.
It’s about our souls reconnecting.
When I pull back, she blinks her eyes open slowly. It reminds me of the first time I kissed her. How she seemed to be lost in the moment. Savoring it.
I’ll never take a single kiss for granted.
Especially considering the end is looming for us. When she feels better and starts asking questions that I won’t have good answers to.
And I’ll lose her. Again .
She sighs and breaks our stare, her eyes searching for the sandwich.
When I hand it to her, I toss, “Sorry for interrupting your meal. But I had to kiss you.”
“It’s like you were reading my mind. Because it’s all I wanted.” She picks up the sandwich. “But I also want this. So maybe it’s not all I wanted.”
“Is it hitting your stomach okay? Not making you sick?”
“All good.”
While she continues eating, I start easing toward the hall. “I’ll be right back. Going to get you some pain reliever.”
Her face pinches. “Where?”
“Medicine cabinet in my bathroom.”
She sets the plate down and scoots off the counter with a wince. “I’ll come with you.” Grabbing the last of her sandwich, she drags herself toward me.
While I rifle through the medicine cabinet, she lingers in the doorway leading from the bathroom to my bedroom, watching wordlessly.
After I find and open the pill bottle, she creeps tentatively in my direction.
“James?”
“Yes, sugar bear?”
“I need to use the restroom.”
“Okay, I’ll step out. While you do that, I’ll dash into the kitchen to refill your water. Be right back.” I kiss her forehead on my way past.
She stops me before I get more than a foot from her. “Wait.”
I twist to meet her gaze. “Yeah?”
With her lower lip tucked between her teeth, her chin quivers, and she can’t look me in the eye. “Can you stay right at the door?”
Since I found her tonight, she hasn’t let me stray beyond arm’s length. Not sure why I thought it’d be okay to be clear on the other side of the house.
Stupid, Tomer.
Stepping close to her, I place my hand on the small of her back and usher her the rest of the way into the bathroom. “I’ll wait here. Go ahead.”
“Thank you.”
As she moves the rest of the way in, I expect her to close the door, but she doesn’t. Instead, she leaves it open a crack. And not as if she was careless or forgot to close it all the way. It was a slow and controlled movement.
My sugar bear.
I need to get my laptop when she falls asleep so I can start hunting down the people who did this to her. I’ll have to get the photos that Jonesy snapped of their faces and sent to Mia at HQ.
Fucking hell. Can’t believe Big Al was waiting for us when we returned. Talk about being fucking screwed.
Luckily, Lettie doesn’t know what her father looks like, or she might have recognized him. I asked her once if she had any photos of him, but since her mom passed when she was an infant and her grandparents never told her about her father, I suppose her knowing what he looks like is unlikely.
The fear that gripped me when they were face to face tonight was yet another of my worst nightmares coming to fruition.
A lot of those happening lately.
Her timid voice calls out. “You’re still there, right?”
“I’m right here.”
“Thank you.”
Since she can’t see me, I don’t restrain my grin, letting it overtake my face. My head falls back against the wall with a soft thud.
“That’s the twelfth thank you in so many minutes.”
“Glad you can count that high,” she snarks.
“Smart-ass,” I mutter.
“Sexy-ass,” she tosses back without missing a beat.
The relief that she can still act like a brat warms my soul in an unfathomable way. Fuck, I needed that.
When she’s done, we return to the kitchen together to refill her water. Once we’re back in my room, I pull down the covers on her side of the bed. She eases down cautiously and scoots up the mattress while trying to hide her pained sighs.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re not hurting. I already know you are.”
She sticks her tongue out at me. “Maybe I’m not trying to hide it from you . Did you ever think that perhaps I’m trying to hide it from myself?”
Damn.
“No. I didn’t. Are you?”
Screwing her lips to one side, she tosses me an unreadable look.
I pull the blanket up to her chest. “What’s that look for?”
“Nothing. Bring your clueless ass to bed, please.” She taps my pillow twice.
“Hang on a second. I have some cream for the backs of your legs. Can you roll onto your stomach or at least your side?”
“It’s not gonna burn or sting, is it?”
“No. It’ll soothe the pain, reduce swelling, and shorten bruising time.” Yet another tool from my Dom arsenal that’ll come in handy tonight.
One of the tricks of the trade.
Nibbling her lip, she offers a slow nod of agreement, then rolls to her side. I retrieve the replenishing cream from the bathroom cabinet and return before she notices I’m too far from her.
This stuff is great for after a rough impact play session. It’s made with shea butter, arnica, and vitamin E.
Kneeling beside her, I lift the shirt and apply a thin layer of balm to the areas where the skin is raised with welts or where the bruising is prevalent.
Her breathing ratchets up, and she hisses when I hit certain sections of the backs of her thighs. With each pained twinge I see in her body language, I vow to add ten times the suffering to the men who did this to her.
Maybe more.
Despite the mounting rage inside me, I force calming breaths and keep my focus on aiding in her healing. The rest can wait.
Not for long.
But for now, she deserves all my attention.
“That does feel nice. Thank you,” she coos in a sleepy timbre.
Knowing how much she likes me to tease her about her manners, I offer an exaggerated huff. “Three hundred and fifty-two thank yous. A new record.”
Her shoulders wobble with her soft chuckles.
When I’ve finished applying the cream, I lean forward to kiss the small of her back and the swell of one hip. One of the few spots where her skin isn’t marred.
Before standing, I tattoo the image of her wounded flesh into my memory. I’ll use it as fuel when I prepare to deliver justice on her behalf.
I need to know the name of each person who put a mark on her body—the specific mark—so I can do it to them in return.
Repeatedly until they beg for death.
I set the jar of cream on the nightstand. “You can move to your back now if you want to.”
On the way to my side of the bed, I’m about to cut the lights when something gives me pause. I leave my hand hovering over the switch. “Light on or off?”
Her face waxes over while she contemplates my question. “Um... can we leave the bathroom light on and turn off the overhead light?”
“Sure, baby.”
“Thank you.”
I groan playfully, drawing a giggle from her.
And for a simple moment, everything feels normal.
But the moment is shattered when I slip into bed behind her and try to pull her close. Her body stiffens when I wrap my arm around her waist, and she sucks in a sharp breath from the pain.
Instantly, I pull away. “Sorry, sugar.”
“No, please don’t apologize. I want you to hold me.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
She whimpers an adorable tiny pout. “How about you lie on your back and let me cuddle on you?”
“Anything you want.”
Once we find a comfortable position with her on her side and one arm tossed over my chest, she sighs deeply. This time, it’s not from pain. It’s either contentment or exhaustion. Probably a bit of both.
I run my hand through her damp hair and hold her the best I can without hurting her.
Right before she dozes off, she whispers, “You won’t leave me when I fall asleep, will you?”
“No, sweetness. I’m staying right here.”
“All night?”
“All night.”
“Do you promise?”
“Cross my heart.”
“If you break your promise, I’ll spank you tomorrow.”
“Paddle or no paddle?” I ask through a yawn.
“Neither. A whip.”
A chuckle subtly shakes my chest. “Good night, sugar bear. I swear I won’t leave your side.”
I kiss her on the top of her head, intending to keep that promise. If I do anything other than hold her tonight, it’ll be web searches to learn how to care for someone overcoming sexual trauma. And that will be done right here in bed on my phone.
Although I’d love to get started on identifying everyone involved with this mess, she needs me to hold her right now even more.
And I need that too.