Chapter 9
Quinn
Graham’s neighborhood surprised me. The houses were tidy and well-kept, arranged in a quiet cul-de-sac lined with maples and soft pools of lamplight. His vehicle slowed and pulled into a driveway at the end of the curve. I blinked up at a single-story house with stone trim and a wide porch.
I didn’t know what I’d expected, but this wasn’t it. The street felt…safe. Cul-de-sacs screamed family, and Graham Ramsey didn’t seem like the cul-de-sac type.
As far as I knew, he lived alone.
A thought hit me, a ridiculous one, and panic crawled up my ribs. It hadn’t occurred to me that he could have someone. I never asked—never thought to. The moonlight streaming through the driver-side window cast his face in shadow.
“Do you…live with anyone?”
He glanced at me, confused.
“No,” he said simply, before pushing his door open and stepping out into the night.
Relief hit me square in the chest, so potent it surprised me. I wasn’t sure why I’d care so much if he had.
A moment later, he opened my door and offered his hand. He waited, not moving closer or trying to touch me. It was an invitation, not an expectation.
I stared at his hand for too long. My body ached now that the adrenaline was wearing off. My lip throbbed so hard it made my eyes sting. My throat felt like it was on fire. Even my chest hurt like it was one big bruise, and for the first time, I wondered whether I was more injured than I realized.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I reached for him. His hand was warm and steady, calloused in a way that grounded me as he folded his fingers around mine. His jacket was still over my shoulders, keeping out the night chill as he helped me to my feet.
Everything hurt.
He didn’t let go right away, but he didn’t hold on either. As we walked toward the porch, his steps slowed to match mine, and I could’ve released his hand at any moment. I didn’t.
Inside, the house smelled faintly like cedar and something richer—coffee maybe. The warmth hit me in a wave, and my knees wobbled. Graham closed the door behind us and guided me to a soft, brown couch in the living room.
“Sit,” he said quietly.
I obeyed without argument, sinking down onto the cushion. My fingers twitched against the fabric, desperate for something solid to hold on to.
He crouched in front of me, flicking on a nearby lamp. The soft light filled the room. His eyes swept over me, brows drawn tight. His expression was carefully neutral, but tension radiated off him.
“My friend will be here soon to look you over,” he said finally.
I stared at him, disoriented. I’d almost forgotten about that part. He’d called a doctor. I looked away, wanting to argue, but feeling too exhausted. At least this was better than the hospital.
I inspected my surroundings. The house was clean and spacious, with vaulted ceilings and an open concept living room and kitchen. The walls were a deep forest-green, the kitchen cabinets a beautiful oak. It was almost cozy. Intimate. Moody but in a welcoming way.
It felt like Graham.
“Can I get you something? Water, tea—anything?”
I shook my head automatically, though my throat burned for a drink. My hands trembled in my lap.
He stood abruptly anyway and went into the kitchen. I heard the soft sound of the faucet, the clink of a glass, and then he was back, setting water on the coffee table in front of me.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The quiet stretched, thick and heavy. I tried to steady my breathing again, but in the silence, all I heard was the hiss of my attacker’s words in my ear.
You shouldn’t be in this fucking town.
I swallowed hard, wincing at the pain in my throat. Graham must’ve noticed, because he spoke again.
“Whoever did this,” he said softly, “they’re not going to get away with it.”
I didn’t reply. But when I finally met his eyes again, something steady and fierce made me want to believe him.
The ring of the doorbell made me jump. Graham stood from his crouch, heading to the door and opening it.
A woman walked inside, carrying a large bag that resembled some kind of a medical emergency kit. She tucked her short, blonde hair behind her ear and looked up at Graham.
He gave her a forced smile. “Thanks for coming.”
She nodded, following him into the living room. She smiled when she saw me. It was the sort of smile that was immediately supposed to put people at ease. She seemed around Raleigh’s age, radiating the same gentle steadiness and unspoken patience.
“You must be Quinn,” she said, her voice as calming as her smile. “My name is Anna. Graham mentioned you might need my help.”
I tried to nod, but ended up giving something closer to a jerky tilt of my head.
When I didn’t say anything, Anna continued, “If it’s okay with you, we’ll check out a few things and make sure you’re all right.”
I swallowed hard. She seemed nice. Shame burned up my neck before I could stop it.
This was too much. I didn’t need this. I wanted to hide—curl back inside the walls I’d built inside my heart of concrete and steel and pretend I didn’t need anyone.
I wanted to go home.
But I didn’t even know where home was anymore. My apartment in Cincinnati? The bed-and-breakfast? Neither felt right. I was aching for a place that didn’t exist.
Anna’s voice broke through my thoughts. “Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.” She glanced at Graham. “Maybe with a little more privacy?”
“Right,” he said quickly. “You can use my room.”
I didn’t protest. My mind felt detached from my body as I rose and followed them down a hall.
The house was quiet, our footsteps the only sound.
Graham opened a door near the end of the hall, revealing a clean, spacious bedroom.
The hardwood floors gleamed in the soft light from the bedside lamp, and a thick wool rug covered the center of the floor.
The bed was neatly made, the down comforter smooth and inviting.
“Here.” Anna motioned me toward it.
I sat gingerly on the edge, the mattress dipping beneath my weight.
Graham hesitated in the doorway. His eyes flicked to Anna, then back to me. “I’ll be right out in the living room if you need me,” he said, voice quiet but firm.
He shut the door.
Anna placed her bag on the bedside table and opened it. Inside was a neat collection of instruments—blood pressure cuff, stethoscope, gauze, antiseptic, and things I couldn’t name. She looked up at me.
“Quinn,” she said gently, “I’m going to take a look at you, all right? But you’re in charge here. If anything feels uncomfortable, you tell me and I’ll stop. Fair?”
I nodded, but didn’t at all feel in charge of anything. Least of all my own body.
Her lips thinned. Cautiously, she took her phone out of her pocket, looking at me almost like she was sorry she had to ask. “Can I get your permission to take pictures of your injuries?”
I should’ve recoiled from the request, but I was too numb. “Why?”
“For my records. They will be completely private. I won’t share them with anyone without your permission.”
I didn’t have the energy to ask more, and though I didn’t even know this woman, I didn’t care enough about myself right now to refuse. “Okay. That’s fine.”
“Thank you.” She tentatively reached for me. “First, let’s take this off.”
She tugged at something across my chest, and I realized my bag was still slung across my body. I’d totally forgotten about it.
I helped her take it off and she started with my vitals—blood pressure, pulse, pupils, and lungs. Her hands were steady and warm, her movements practiced but not clinical. “You’re not concussed,” she murmured. “That’s good news.”
She leaned back, studying my face. She inspected my mouth closer, taking out a small light and looking at it from different angles.
“I don’t think your lip needs stitches. The vermilion isn’t damaged.
The wound itself is actually below the lips and shallow.
I’m going to clean it out and put a bandage on it. ”
I grimaced. “That’s fine.”
She gave me a look that was soft but immovable. “It might hurt a little.”
I looked away. “Okay.”
She took a photo of the wound so quickly I almost didn’t notice. Then she snapped on a pair of gloves, tore open an antiseptic packet, and pressed the cool pad to my skin. The sharp chemical sting hit instantly, blooming through the cut so intensely my eyes watered.
“Sorry, I know that burns.”
My tone sounded as dead as I felt inside. “It’s okay.”
Anna’s mouth pinched, but she didn’t say anything as she gently cleaned the area, inspecting the cut with careful precision.
After a moment, she dabbed on a thin layer of antibiotic ointment, then placed a narrow adhesive strip just beneath my lip, smoothing the edges so it wouldn’t pull when I moved. It didn’t take long.
When she was done, she continued her examination, asking for permission each time she needed to touch me. When her fingers pressed lightly along my ribs, I winced, swallowing a gasp of pain.
Her brows narrowed but she kept something resembling a smile on her lips.
“That’s quite painful, huh? Do you mind if I take a closer look?” She touched the hem of my shirt, and I stiffened.
She waited patiently for my answer before she moved again.
Slowly, I nodded, and she lifted my shirt to look at my chest. I didn’t look down, but felt her warm fingers gently prodding along my ribs.
She asked questions about my pain, took a few close-up photos, and had me take some deep breaths as she listened to my lungs again.
“Bruised,” she murmured finally, letting my shirt fall back. “Nothing feels broken, but you should be careful and rest. Ice would help, too.”
Her hands moved to my throat next. She turned my head gently, her expression tightening as she took in the red marks. “How’s your breathing?”
“It hurts a little,” I admitted. “But not too bad. I can breathe fine.”
“Good.” She nodded. “There’s no swelling or crepitus. Nothing I can find that worries me too much. But if your voice gets hoarse, or it suddenly hurts to swallow or breathe, you go straight to the ER, all right?”
I nodded mutely.
When she was done, Anna cleaned up quietly, moving with a soft efficiency.
“You’re going to be sore for a few days,” she said finally. “Keep ice on your ribs tonight. And I’ll leave some antibiotic for your lip. The bruising will look worse tomorrow, but you’re going to be okay.”
I swallowed, the movement making my throat sting. “Thank you.”
She patted my knee. “Of course.”
Anna’s expression shifted, determination overriding the kindness in her gentle demeanor. “Never forget how strong you are, Quinn. This was incredibly brave of you, allowing me to treat you. I’m honored.”
A wave of unexpected emotion swelled inside my wounded chest, and for a moment I thought I was going to cry.
I could not cry. I would not cry.
When I was silent, she squeezed my knee before she stood. “You rest here for a little bit. I’m going to talk to Graham.”
She gathered her bag, gave me one last reassuring look, and slipped out of the room.
I stared at the closed door after she was gone.
I could not cry. I would not cry.
But even as I repeated the mantras over and over in my mind, a rebellious tear slipped down my cheek.