Chapter 30
The image of Bellamy Whitlock on his knees and in handcuffs stays with Grace for a long time after she leaves Braxton.
Even as she weaves in and out of consciousness, wrapped up in a blanket in the back of an ambulance, the outline of it forms behind her eyes.
It echoes into the dream she has on the way to the hospital—she’s standing in the front yard of the house where her mother was killed.
Dark, syrupy blood drips from the eaves, creating red puddles across the rickety porch.
Bellamy’s there, but he’s standing outside, staring through a window, pressed against the glass with his hands cupped around his face.
Satisfied with whatever he sees, he tries to walk toward the front door, but his left leg yanks him back.
Grace, in whatever shapeless, nonbeing form she’s taken in this dream, an observer and not a participant, looks down at the same time he does to find a thick, rusty shackle at his ankle, secured tight enough that it will cut off his circulation if he struggles against it.
He shakes his leg once, twice, then pulls it with all of his might.
A futile effort, because the chain doesn’t seem to have an end.
It goes beneath the porch, and when Grace crouches down to follow it, she sees that its start is underground.
Deep within the earth, too deep to ever dig out. This, she knows, somehow.
Bellamy starts to scream, starts to bang his fists against the house, but no one comes to his aid.
He pulls at the shackle hard enough that he breaks into a sweat, and only when he is too exhausted to continue does he finally look up into the yard.
He seethes when he spots her, starts to spit vitriolic remarks, vehement enough that he’s nearly foaming at the mouth.
He points at her, lunges for her, but he remains rooted to the same spot.
And though he shouts, though he seems to take deep breaths in between bouts of screaming, Grace cannot hear him.
She stares for another minute, watching him crumble in a kingdom of his own making, and then she turns around.
She walks away from her father’s house, a house she lived in but never called home, and she doesn’t look back.
She leaves Bellamy Whitlock chained up in the past, where he should’ve always stayed.
When Grace wakes up, the first thing she sees is a window with open blinds.
Wherever she is, it’s nighttime. The glow of streetlights coalesces with black and gray clouds, gilding the sky in tinges of gold.
Grace blinks, clearing her vision more each time, until the heaviness of sleep no longer threatens to pull her back under.
She swallows and quickly notices how dry her mouth is, how horrible it tastes.
Grimacing, she looks around, hoping for water, but what she finds instead sends a pleasant warmth swooping in her belly.
Her heart squeezes and seems to double in size with all the love that immediately overtakes her as she absorbs the sight of Crew, fast asleep in an uncomfortable-looking chair right next to her bed.
His cheek rests on the palm of his hand, and his lips are parted slightly.
His hair is a mess—he’s probably been running his hands through it nonstop.
He looks paler than usual, like he hasn’t been outside in a couple of days, and his skin has already started to retreat to its natural fairness.
His other hand is beneath her own on the bed, and though he is completely asleep, his thumb strokes back and forth over her palm, unconsciously rubbing random, gentle semicircles into her skin.
Grace takes a moment before waking him to take in her surroundings—a dimly lit, private hospital room, bigger than her last apartment by a wide margin.
A mauve, vinyl love seat up against the farthest wall, with duffel bags strewn across its stiff-looking cushions.
A collection of flowers sit on various flat surfaces throughout the room, some arranged elegantly in beautiful, bow-laden vases, and others—well, the green plastic pitcher with sunflowers haphazardly sticking out of the mouth looks a lot like the one they use in the Halcyon bunkhouse for sweet tea.
Tears well in her eyes at the thought of the guys being here, and she wishes she’d been awake to see them, wishes she could’ve squeezed each one of them until it hurt.
As for herself, she’s hooked up to an IV, and the steady beep of a monitor sounds beside her.
There are oxygen prongs attached to her nostrils, though she isn’t sure why.
The pain she was in before—that searing, brain-altering pain—is dull and manageable now, but still present.
Lingering in a way that lets her know it isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, despite the fact that she’s probably on some high-dose meds.
As the memory of it all begins to seep back into her consciousness, Grace’s gaze darts to her hand, and the desert of her mouth goes somehow dryer at what she sees.
It’s stiff and unmoving in a thick cast that stretches halfway up her forearm and elevated on a firm pillow.
She tries to move her fingers from within, but is met with a blinding ache that sends a roil of nausea through her gut.
Grace lets out a harsh exhale as she stares at her hand, and memories begin to come back in flashes—unnaturally bent fingers, a hand hanging limp and immobile, the crackling sound and sensation of knuckles being dislocated beneath cruel, brutish thumbs.
She isn’t breathing normally anymore; she’s hyperventilating as the picture becomes clearer.
The past four days spent withering away in that rock field, certain she would die out there, alone and left for the coyotes to feast upon.
It’s impossible in the now to forget the then, to rationalize with her body and mind that she is no longer coughing up blood from inhaling the dust, no longer refraining from tears to conserve water.
No longer fading away beneath that blinding sun.
The only thing Grace is capable of, in this moment, is panic.
The beeping of the monitor at her bedside has picked up, and the commotion of Grace waking and starting to spiral must’ve been enough to wake Crew, because before she can utter a single word, or cry, or whimper, he is there.
Standing, pushing his hands into her hair, holding her cheeks between his warm palms and leaning down until he’s staring her directly in the eye.
It’s reminiscent of the way he found her on that field, and again, he knows on some instinctive level that he has to get her to see him.
To understand, without a shadow of a doubt, that he is here.
He is real. He is with her. “Hey, hey, it’s all right,” he says, and the soothing lilt of his voice is an instant balm to the turmoil raging through her.
He moves in slowly, carefully, giving her time to recognize what he’s doing, and then presses his lips to her cheekbone.
He lingers there, just a hint of contact, further reinforcing the notion that he is here.
Grace crumbles. The heat of the panic, the fear, the devastating resolve of a woman who had given up—it rushes out of her in a gust so heavy and thick that her body actually seems to deflate.
She starts to cry, responding to his instincts with her own and leaning her face into his touch, craving more of it.
All of it. Crew gets it—he always has. Within seconds, he’s sitting at her side, pressing kisses against her cheeks, her nose, her eyelids.
And in between each one, she can hear his reassuring words, spoken with a voice more wrecked than before but no less comforting. He kisses her brow.
“Grace. Sweetheart.” The tip of her nose. “Breathe.” The apple of one cheek. “You’re all right.” And then the other. “You’re safe.” The corner of her mouth. “I’m here.” And finally, her lips. “I love you.”
Grace’s voice is raspy and slightly wheezing when she finally finds it.
“Crew,” she manages, and with her good hand, she reaches up to hold his face.
His eyes flutter shut, and he leans into her touch before pressing a quick kiss to her palm.
“You’re here,” she repeats, the statement laced with tears, but no longer of despair or panic.
Now, there is awe; there is disbelief and joy and safety flowing in rivers down her cheeks. “You came.”
A watery chuckle sounds in his throat. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”
“Your parents—”
Crew shakes his head. “They’re all right. They’re gonna be fine.”
Grace’s face crumples. “I—” The sentence dies in her chest, stopped by an onslaught of relief so sharp it’s painful.
She breathes through it, then lets her eyes fall to his chest, the wrinkled denim button-up that looks criminally good on him, even after days of wear.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see any of you again.
” She rubs a thumb across his cheek. “I thought—”
“I know.” The tips of his fingers are at her chin, gently pushing upward until she’s looking at him again.
He exhales deeply through his nose, then gives a single, firm shake of his head.
Now that she knows what it looks like—what it physically manifests into—the disappointment he feels in himself is evident.
“I made a mistake, Grace. You were honest with me, and I punished you for it. I should’ve listened.
I should’ve seen how scared you were. I’m sorry I didn’t.
I’m sorry I walked away from you, and I’m sorry I ever made you doubt—even for a second—that I will always come for you. ”