Chapter 40
Kade
By the time the police finish taking her statement, I can see it’s drained her, no matter how patient they’ve tried to be.
Exhaustion clings to every part of her, pulling her down.
Liv’s eyes keep slipping closed between questions, but her grip on my hand never loosens, as if letting go would cost her too much.
The doctors clear her a few hours later, satisfied her vitals are steady and the drug is working its way out of her system.
Relief washes through me, loosening something tight in my chest, but I don’t let it dull my focus.
I listen carefully as they tell her to rest, stay hydrated, and watch for any delayed symptoms.
Once the doctor has gone, their instructions still fresh in my mind, I help Liv change into the spare clothes Aubrey brought.
Her skin looks too pale under the harsh hospital lights, and she leans into me without thinking, every small movement slow and heavy.
She doesn’t say much, just lets me guide her.
There’s a fragility to her now that has nothing to do with the drug and everything to do with what it’s taken from her.
I keep my hand on the small of her back as we make our way to the truck, holding her steady when her knees wobble slightly.
“Almost there, baby,” I reassure her, pressing a kiss to her temple. She gives me the faintest nod but doesn’t speak.
The drive home is silent. She curls into the passenger seat, her head resting against the window, her eyes half-closed. I keep glancing over, just to make sure she’s still breathing, still here.
By the time we pull into the driveway, I’ve already made up my mind, I’m not leaving her side. Not tonight. Not for as long as she’ll let me stay.
“Come on,” I whisper, helping her down. “Let’s get you inside.”
She moves on autopilot, her hand slipping into mine, her steps unsteady but determined. And the whole time, this knot in my chest just pulls tighter because I almost lost her. And I’m not sure I’ll ever get the image of her lying there—lifeless, broken—out of my head.
Not ever.
As we step onto the porch, something tightens low in my gut.
The front door.
It’s open. Just slightly, but enough.
I freeze, guiding Liv behind me without thinking, my grip tightening on her hand to keep her close.
“Liv,” I call out, my voice low, careful, “did you lock the door before we left last night?”
Her brows pinch, her eyes still hazy as she sways slightly. “I—” She blinks hard, her face crumpling. “I… I don’t remember. I think so. I always do. But I…” She trails off, frustration and fear flashing through her.
“Okay. It’s okay.” My voice stays calm, but everything in me is on edge now. Every muscle wired tight.
I guide her down one step, settling her gently on the porch swing. “Stay right here. Don’t move until I say.”
Her fingers clutch my sleeve before I pull away, her eyes wide. “Kade—”
“I’ll check. Just a second. Wait right here.” The words are steady, but my pulse hammers as I cross to the door. The world narrows to one sharp point of focus.
I move through the house room by room, every nerve stretched tight, listening for anything out of the ordinary.
But everything’s still. Undisturbed.
The front door must’ve been left ajar by mistake. I check every lock, every window, every corner, then blow out a breath, running a hand through my hair before heading back out to the porch.
Liv’s still where I left her, her arms wrapped around herself, looking small and pale in the early evening light.
When she sees me, her eyes search mine, wide and anxious.
“Nothing,” I say gently, dipping my head a little to meet her eyes. “No sign of anything off. Must’ve been the door not catching properly.”
She nods, but her teeth catch her bottom lip.
“Come on,” I murmur, standing and holding out my hand. “Let’s get you inside.”
She takes it without hesitation, her fingers cold in mine. I keep her close as I guide her through the door.
Once I’ve locked the door behind us, I keep her close, my hand at the small of her back as I guide her into the house. She looks drained—physically, emotionally, completely wrung out—and I can tell she’s barely holding it together.
“Come on,” I insist gently, brushing a hand down her arm. She doesn’t argue, just nods, her eyes distant, still foggy from everything she’s been through. “A bath will make you feel better.”
I lead her upstairs, staying close as she moves slowly, and guide her into the bathroom.
She lowers herself onto the closed lid of the toilet while I turn on the water, adjusting the temperature until it’s warm but not too hot.
I grab towels and her softest pajamas, setting everything within easy reach, making sure she won’t have to lift a finger.
“Let me help you,” I say softly, kneeling in front of her.
She watches me as I untie her shoes, slipping them off one by one, then peel her socks away. My hands are gentle on her ankles as I move slowly, giving her time to stop me if she wants to—but she doesn’t.
I help her out of the sweatshirt and the thin layers underneath, until she’s standing in front of me, bare and vulnerable. There’s nothing sexual about this. It’s something deeper—something fragile and real.
I don’t rush. I keep my eyes on hers, waiting for the slightest sign of hesitation, but she lets me guide her carefully into the bath.
“Just relax,” I soothe as she sinks into the water. “I’ve got you.”
She exhales softly, her eyes fluttering closed as she leans back against the edge. And I stay right there beside her, never letting go.
I kneel beside the tub, watching the rise and fall of her chest, the way her lashes rest against her cheeks. For a moment, we both just breathe. The air between us is still, quiet, safe.
When I open my eyes, Liv is already looking at me. Her gaze is heavy with exhaustion, but there’s something else too—something that shatters me right down the middle.
I lean forward and reach for the washcloth, soaking it in the warm water. I hesitate, giving her the space to pull away, but she doesn’t—she nods, just the barest tilt of her chin.
It’s all the permission I need.
I lather the soap into the cloth, wringing it out before brushing it gently over her skin. My touch stays light, careful, as if she might break beneath my hands. She stays quiet, her eyes half-closed, trusting me in a way that tightens something deep in my chest.
I work slowly, rinsing and soaping the cloth again and again, gliding it over her arms, her shoulders, down to her legs. I never rush, never push—just quiet, steady care.
When I set the cloth aside, I meet her eyes again. “Want me to wash your hair?” I ask softly, my fingers brushing the wet ends.
She gives me the smallest nod. “Okay.” She whispers.
I reach for the shampoo, working the lather between my hands before gently running my fingers through her hair, careful not to pull. She sighs, her body relaxing a little more as I massage her scalp, the suds sliding down into the water.
“Almost done, baby,” I say, rinsing her hair with a plastic cup, making sure nothing gets in her eyes.
When it’s done, I grab a towel, holding it open as I help her from the bath, wrapping her up and pulling her gently against my chest for a moment before drying her off.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper again, because it’s the only thing that feels true.
And I help her into her softest pajamas before leading her quietly to bed.
She’s quiet as I pull back the sheets and help her lie down, her movements slow and heavy with exhaustion. I tuck the blanket around her and sit on the edge of the bed, brushing damp strands of hair from her face.
“Will you stay with me?” she whispers, her voice barely audible.
“Of course,” I say without hesitation. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her eyes flicker closed for a second before she shifts, reaching for my hand. “Lie with me?”
The words leave her lips soft and uncertain, like she’s afraid I might say no.
But I’m already moving, tugging my shirt over my head and shoving my jeans down before slipping into bed beside her.
I’m careful, leaving her space, but she curls into me instantly, tucking her head against my chest like she belongs there.
I wrap an arm around her, gentle and protective, holding her close to me.
For a while, neither of us say anything. I can feel her breathing steady, the tension leaving her bit by bit.
“I was so scared,” she whispers finally, her breath warm against my shirt.
I press a kiss to the top of her head. “Me too.”
Her fingers rest lightly against my chest as she drifts toward sleep, and I keep my arm around her, grounding her the only way I know how. I don’t close my eyes. Not yet. I just watch her, breathe her in, holding her like I can keep the world out.
And long after her breathing evens out, I’m still there—awake, watchful, and not letting go.