26. Chapter 26
Chapter twenty-six
‘Lias
Panic has its gnarly hands wrapped around my throat when I force myself into Sadie's apartment.
I know what I saw on the camera before I darted out of the rental, but rushing inside and coming face to face with it are two different things.
The drive here was a blur.
Traffic lights and stop signs ceased to exist as I plowed through each of them, not giving a damn if red and blues appeared behind me and chased me to the ends of the continent.
Time is not, and hasn't been, on my side in ages.
I wasn't about to waste a second getting to her.
Not when something irreversible is on the verge of taking her from me.
Pacing outside of her door, I try to give her time to answer after I knocked, but the sound of her padding feet never reaches the hallway. What if nothing's wrong and I'm freaking out over nothing?
Your gut hasn't been wrong before.
Yeah, okay.
Knocking more frantically, my knuckles redden from the abuse. The bones beneath rattle and ache when the strikes get harder.
"Sadie, open the damn door!"
Nothing. Not a fuck you, go away, Sadie's not here, nothing.
Fuck this.
One step back, I lift my right foot and drive the heel of my boot at the weak spot above the door handle and shatter the frame. It flies open and ricochets off the wall, almost hitting me as I step through and race down the hallway, around the corner, and into the kitchen.
For a brief moment, I think my brain’s playing a trick on me, but then my stomach slaps onto the floor as it drops out of me.
"Sunshine!"
Three devastating stomps of my boots bring me to her, then I kneel next to her motionless body. Where denim-clad knees crack under the sudden drop.
She's prone; pale with sweat lines sparkle along the dried salt while her left arm rests heavily over her stomach.
The right's slightly bent over her head and peeking from the end of the island—what the camera showed me. Both are torn up, gashes in the left and angry red welts on the right. Her shirt's managed to absorb some of the blood; the rest, however, she's lying in.
Locked on something a hundred miles above us, her eyes fail to blink. Her once painted lids, lined with thick lashes, have become inflamed and raw. Her dead gaze makes my stomach twist into knots too complicated to untangle.
S...she, no. No, I refuse to believe it.
Schooling the shake in my hands, I cup her face. She doesn’t budge. There’s no resistance when I turn her to face me better. If—if she’s gone…
Carefully, I lean, listen to her airway, and watch her chest. Two, five, seven, seconds pass before I finally see it rise the slightest bit and lower. When the faint warmth of her breath tickles my sideburns, I crack a sob.
Focus, Elias, Focus.
Taking hold of her shoulders, I roll her into a rescue position. She’s not breathing deep enough; if I leave her on her back, she’ll asphyxiate.
My leg shifts against her lower back to brace her while I fish out my phone and turn on the flashlight. It’s too dark in here to see clearly. A few taps, and the backlight blazes enough to make me squint as we bloom from the darkness.
Still, she doesn’t shy away when my hand grasps her chin and the other passes the light in front of her eyes. If there’s dilation, then there’s brain function, and I can live with that. Bloodshot, they respond—lifting weight from my chest.
"What the hell did you do to yourself..." I murmur.
Takes me a few moments to pat her down: her waist, bare hip bones with a pair of plastered on underwear, behind her knees, then the other side before I roll her again.
Her dilating eyes tell me her body's alive, but that doesn’t mean a damn thing if her mind is gone. Making a fist, I push the knuckles to her chest, apply pressure, and begin to rub roughly.
"Come on, Sunshine...come back to me."
Three, four, five hard grinds and she doesn't respond so I do it again. Harder, until she groans and attempts to swat me away. She doesn’t have any energy left. Unable to move her fingers much or open her eyes, she damn sure doesn't have what it takes to fight me off.
"That's it, a little more," I encourage her.
I should be furious. She can't be alone for more than a week without turning into a banshee and hurting herself.
Again, she groans.
I turn her head to the left and to the right and that’s when I see her damn hair’s gone. She chopped chunks out of it, shortening it above her shoulders as if she specifically visited a four-year-old’s beauty salon and butchered it with safety sheers.
The massacred strands catch in my fingers when I reach for them—at least the locks are still soft. Carefully, I angle her face toward me and see the hack job reaches the other side too, where pieces vary between chin-length and long enough to scrape her clavicle.
"Why?" My question comes out with a grunt.
I’m half shocked as the other fifty percent is borderline irrationally angry. “Sadie, why the hell would you do this?”
On my feet again, I gather her by the underarms and lift her onto her own uncooperative toes, her exhausted legs failing to hold her up.
Without dropping her, my hips push forward and pin her to the counter to free one of my hands.
Towels are around here somewhere, hidden in drawers, a cabinet, something.
One after the other, I begin yanking drawers open to find one.
Her arms aren't bleeding anymore, thank fuck, but I still need to get her cleaned up to see the extent of the damage.
Spotting one, I slam the drawer closed and tow her to the sink. Trapping her again, I wet the rag all willy-nilly and begin washing the dry red glaze off.
Her left hand's first, no issues—the side with the worst of it. The tattoo she’s so proud of is fucked.
She’ll be pissed when she wakes up and notices it’s carved up.
What was once a pretty reminder she survived will now stir up these painful memories.
Her right arm isn't as bad; instead, there are gouges deep in her fingers.
Rinsing the cloth, Sadie yanks and cracks her elbow on the counter's edge with a little whine when I touch her right hand.
"Doesn't feel too good, does it? At least you're coherent now."
Predictably, she sluggishly becomes combative as the towel licks the blood away to reveal split skin and exposed ligaments on the insides of her knuckles.
"These will need stitches."
"D... don't ne...need anything."
"Oh look. It talks," I snap bitterly.
Suddenly her spine finds a bit of starch and straightens between me and the counter—trying to squirm her little ass free.
"Be still. Do not make me tell you again."
"Go fu...fuck yourself."
"There you are." I throw back at her, unimpressed. "Messed yourself up pretty good."
Sadie pushes at me, using her hips at first. When that doesn't work, she tries with her maimed arms instead.
A lot of good it's going to do her when she doesn't have the strength to blow a damn bubble, let alone shove a man twice her size.
"Stop, I'm almost done."
Yank.
Looking at the ceiling, my hands drop to the countertop, caging her in. I'm about to strangle her. Someone give me strength—the Lord doesn't have enough to lend to stop me from fucking her up.
"Let. Me. Help. You," I grit between clenched teeth.
I reach for her again and she swings. Faster than her, I grab her forearm, step back, spin, and shove her forward over the sink. This time, I wrench the water on high and hold the back of her head under it as she screams and thrashes.
"Stop!" She chokes out the word.
Her pitch pierces my ears but doesn't deter me.
Next to the faucet sits a bottle of liquid dish soap.
Snatching it out of the caddy, I tilt it and pour a shit ton all over her greasy hair.
My hips push hard into her panty-covered ass, and at the moment she begins to flail and writhe.
I scowl when she bucks hard enough to push me back but I slam against her.
Instantly, my hand shifts and captures the back of her neck as the other begins to scrub the soap into her filthy mop.
"I said! Let me help! You don't want to cooperate—I'll force you."
Sadie screams her protest which mixes with the aggressive flow of sink water. Her arms flail about, hitting the counter with rough blows.
Jagged, pathetic excuses for nails barely hang onto the tip of her fingers as they desperately claw for traction across the now wet marble. Which gets her nowhere near freedom. When she figures out I’m not going to let up, she resorts to kicking like a mule.
We've done this before, Sunshine. Go ahead.
Suds gradually build at her crown, giving me more lather to work into the rest of her hair. Next, I’ll drag her into the bathroom and throw her into the bath where she’ll stay while I brush out the rat’s nest.
Fuck, she needs it. I couldn't smell it at first, but she's let her hygiene go, too.
Jerking the sprayer out of its holder, I start to rinse off the foam as she calls me every name in the book and a few more.
"I fucking hate you! You don't do this to people! Abusive piece of shit! Stupid motherfucker!"
"Correction..." My hand grips the back of her neck a bit harder. "I've done far worse. Be glad I like you; others don't get the pleasure of breathing while I do this."
I continue to spray.
"I can't breathe now!"
"Sure are screaming a lot for someone who can't breathe."
Next, I wrench her head to the side and get her hairline, where strands are so light they’re nearly translucent. She has her eyes squeezed so hard, the skin around her brows is turning red. Looks like it hurts. Darn.
Wondering if the other side is doing the same, I tilt her head the opposite direction and rinse that side too.
Focused, I don’t realize she hasn’t jerked around for a bit.
Instead, she’s shivering now—whether from fury, the cold, or exhaustion, I can’t tell.
All three’s my guess, plus some other bullshit thrown in there.
Probably plotting my death like a fucking brat.