Elias
The abandoned storage yard pulsed beneath violent flashes of red and blue, the emergency strobes washing across corrugated steel, shattered warehouse windows, and the slick gravel in harsh, repeating waves.
Diesel engines idled in uneven rhythms while paramedics flooded the compound with organised urgency, their reflective jackets catching the lights every few seconds like moving beacons.
Radios barked over one another in overlapping bursts of coded traffic, stretchers rattled across broken concrete, trauma bags were thrown open, oxygen bottles hissed to life, and everywhere I looked people were moving with the practiced efficiency that only came after seeing too much death.
The twelve women from the shipping container were being lifted onto stretchers one after another, thick silver thermal blankets wrapped tightly around shaking shoulders while oxygen masks disappeared against bruised, soot-covered faces.
Medics checked pupils, counted respirations, called out blood pressure readings, searched for internal bleeding, fractures, dehydration, shock.
One woman cried. Another simply stared at the sky.
One clung to a paramedic's wrist as though letting go meant disappearing again.
Every single one of them was alive. Thank God. For the first time in four months… The ledger hadn't grown.
I stood beside the rear wheel of the nearest ambulance with Seraphina tucked firmly against my side, my arm locked around her shoulders with a grip I couldn't seem to loosen.
Every time I relaxed even slightly, her entire body instinctively folded straight back against the Kevlar covering my chest, searching for contact before she'd even realised she'd moved.
Her fingers remained twisted tightly in the front of my tactical vest, knuckles white beneath the dried blood coating her skin.
Since I'd cut the ropes from her wrists inside that warehouse she hadn't let go of me once.
Not once.
I wasn't entirely sure I wanted her to.
A paramedic in green state scrubs approached carrying a heavy orange trauma kit, stopping a respectful distance away before looking between the two of us. His expression shifted almost immediately. He'd already realised the problem wasn't physical.
"Sir," he said carefully. "She needs to come with us in the secondary ambulance. We need to clear the scene."
"No."
The word left my mouth before I even realised, I'd answered. The medic blinked behind his glasses.
"I mean..." I dragged a hand across my jaw, forcing myself to breathe before looking down at the top of Seraphina's dark head instead of the organised chaos unfolding around us. "Baby..." My voice came out rougher than I intended.
"Will you let them look after you? Will you go with the ambulance?"
She didn't even raise her head. Her forehead stayed pressed against the centre of my chest. A small, stubborn shake brushed against my ribs.
"No."
"They need to check your injuries."
Another shake.
"No."
"Seraphina..."
Her fingers tightened painfully against the front of my vest.
"No."
The medic looked at me helplessly, clipboard balanced against one forearm, pen hovering uselessly above the paper. I let out a slow breath, the cold night air burning my lungs.
"Can you walk?"
She nodded once. Barely.
"Will you let me take care of you at the cottage?"
This time she looked up. Jesus Christ. I'd been so focused on keeping her breathing inside that warehouse I'd barely allowed myself to look at her. The floodlights caught every injury in merciless detail.
Her left eye had swollen almost completely shut beneath a dark purple bloom spreading across her cheekbone.
Blood had dried beneath her nose in cracked crimson lines.
Her lower lip had split almost clean through, the flesh pale where it had swollen around the wound.
Angry finger-shaped bruises circled her throat, already turning black where Collins had crushed her airway.
Smaller bruises disappeared beneath the collar of my jersey she still wore, and the skin around both wrists had been rubbed raw until fresh blood mixed with the older stains left by the rope.
Someone had done that to her. Someone had stood there...and kept going. Yet somehow… She still looked at me like I was the safest place she'd ever known.
"Only you," she whispered.
The words hit somewhere beneath my ribs. Deep. Painfully deep. I swallowed once before answering.
"Only me, I promise, Seraphina."
My thumb brushed gently across her shoulder.
"Always."
The paramedic quietly reached into his trauma kit before holding out a compact emergency medical pack, the plastic crackling softly in the sudden lull between sirens.
"I want her in a hospital bed, Detective."
My answer came immediately.
"So do I."
"But if she's refusing transport..." He glanced between us before lowering his voice.
"Watch her closely tonight. Head injury protocols.
If she starts vomiting, loses consciousness, becomes disorientated, struggles to stay awake, or her pupils change...
" His eyes locked onto mine. "...you bring her straight into Capital General. No waiting until morning."
"I will."
"I mean it."
"So do I."
It took almost twenty minutes before she finally agreed to leave the storage yard.
Even then… It wasn't because she wanted to.
It was because I promised her I was going to look after her and no one else.
She finally released the front of my vest after several careful attempts, only to immediately slide her hand down my arm until her fingers found mine instead.
One condition. She could hold my hand. The entire walk across the broken gravel toward my truck, her cold, bruised fingers never loosened around mine for a single second.
Neither did mine.
The drive back up the mountain road settled into a silence so heavy it almost became another passenger in the cab.
It wasn't uncomfortable, and it sure as hell wasn't peaceful.
It was simply... quiet. The heater hummed softly through the vents, pushing dry warmth against the freezing air still clinging to our clothes, while the tyres rolled over the wet gravel with a slow, rhythmic crunch.
Max lay stretched across the back seat without making a sound, his ears pinned low against his skull, his dark eyes never leaving Seraphina for more than a heartbeat.
Every now and then he'd let out the smallest whine, as if checking she was still there too.
I couldn't stop looking at her.
Every few seconds my eyes drifted away from the road long enough to watch the steady rise and fall beneath the oversized blue jersey hanging from her shoulders.
Breathing. Still breathing. I watched the tiny movement of her fingers around mine.
The slow blink of her one good eye. The slight tremor ran through her jaw every time she swallowed.
I wasn't checking because I doubted she was alive.
I was checking because I needed to keep proving to myself that she was. When the truck rounded the long bend overlooking her little clearing, I felt her entire body seize beside me. Not flinching. Freeze.
Her breathing stopped altogether, the air catching somewhere behind her teeth. Even her grip around my hand became painfully rigid. I followed her stare through the passenger window. Her cottage looked nothing like home anymore.
Portable floodlights washed the little porch in harsh white light while bright yellow crime-scene tape fluttered between the birch trees, snapping softly in the mountain breeze.
A county patrol vehicle still sat crooked near the garden beds, its emergency light bar dead now, but the radio inside continued to spit bursts of static into the empty night.
Evidence markers dotted the yard she'd spent weeks tending, and boot prints scarred the flowerbeds she'd once complained were finally beginning to bloom.
It wasn't a cottage anymore. It was evidence. Her fingers tightened around mine until my knuckles protested beneath the pressure.
I didn't say anything.
There weren't any words in any language that could make that sight hurt less.
Instead, I simply pressed my boot down on the accelerator and drove straight past the turnout without slowing once.
Only when my own dark timber cottage appeared through the trees did I feel the tension begin to leave her body.
It happened gradually, almost reluctantly.
Her shoulders lowered first. Then her grip loosened just enough for my fingers to move again.
Finally, her head tipped back against the headrest as a slow breath escaped her lips.
I pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. Before she'd even reached for the handle, I'd already stepped out, rounded the bonnet and opened her door.
"I'm okay," she whispered, attempting the smallest smile despite the split in her lip.
"I can walk, Elias."
"No."
"The ground is just mud."
"No."
"Elias."
"No."
She stared at me for another second before letting out the tiniest sigh, completely exhausted.
"...Bossy detective."
"I've been called worse by the Bureau."
Without waiting for another argument, I slipped one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back.
She didn't protest this time.
She simply folded into me as though her body had finally decided it didn't have enough strength left to pretend.
Her forehead settled against the side of my neck, her warm breath brushing my skin as I lifted her clear of the truck.
She weighed almost nothing in my arms. Too light.
Far lighter than anyone should after everything she'd endured.
I carried her up the porch steps as though she were made of blown glass. The front door hadn't even shut before Max appeared. One bark. Then another. Not loud but concerned.
His tail wagged low and uncertain as he carefully approached, nose twitching rapidly while he inspected every inch of Seraphina's bruised hands. The moment he caught the smell of dried blood he let out a long, quiet whine that sounded almost human.
"Easy, buddy," I murmured as I nudged the door shut with my boot.
"She's home."
Max immediately licked the backs of her fingers with unbelievable gentleness, careful not to touch the raw rope burns around her wrists. The corner of her swollen mouth twitched.
"Hi, Max," she whispered.
The shepherd pressed his body against my leg and refused to move, following beside us as I carried her down the hallway, making absolutely certain neither of us was disappearing anywhere ever again.
The old timber floor creaked beneath my weight as I carried her toward the bathroom.
Her breathing brushed softly against the side of my neck while every now and then I felt her fingers tighten in the front of my shirt without warning, holding on just long enough to reassure herself I was still there.
I never asked why. I already knew. After tonight she'd wake up a dozen times expecting to be somewhere else. Every single time...
I intended to be there.
I lowered her gently onto the closed toilet lid before crouching in front of her, checking her pupils again without even thinking about it.
"You should shower."
Her eyes stayed fixed on mine.
"I'll get you clean clothes."
A tiny nod.
"I've got spare T-shirts."
Another nod.
"And some academy sweatpants."
She nodded once more. I stood, my knees protesting after the long night, and turned toward the hallway.
"...Elias?"
I stopped instantly.
"Stay."
It wasn't playful. It wasn't dramatic. No sarcasm. Just fear. Pure, stripped-back fear.
I looked back at her sitting beneath the harsh bathroom light, wrapped in dried blood, bruises and my jersey, trying with everything she had left to stop her body from trembling.
"Yeah."
I swallowed against the tightness in my throat.
"I'm staying."
I pulled the bathroom door almost closed, leaving it open just enough that she could still see me from where she sat. The last coherent thought that crossed my mind before I opened my wardrobe was brutally simple.
Don't even think about looking through that gap, you sick fuck.
She's terrified. She's concussed. She's covered in bruises. She's an injured civilian under your protection. The fact she’ll be wearing your shirt doesn't change a damn thing. Protect her. Treat her. Keep her alive.
Everything else belongs in another lifetime.
I pulled open the bottom drawer and reached for the softest grey T-shirt I owned, the cotton worn almost weightless after years of washing.
Beside it I grabbed a pair of loose black academy sweatpants before collecting two thick bath towels from the linen cupboard.
On my way back I stopped at the hallway cabinet, lifted out my primary trauma bag and checked the contents automatically: sterile saline, gauze, butterfly closures, bandages, pain medication, antiseptic, torch, thermometer.
Good.
I carried everything back to the bathroom, placing the folded clothes, towels and medical kit neatly on the stool outside the half-open door. Because once she'd washed the blood, mud and warehouse dust from her skin…
I was going to examine every single injury. Every bruise. Every cut. Every fingerprint left around her throat. Every fracture. Every place Collins had laid his hands on her. And when I found him again...
I intended to make him remember every last one.