Chapter 11
Quinn
Someone was touching my hair, gently rousing me from the exhausted sleep I’d let consume me.
Fingers slid slowly through the strands, tracing the curve of my scalp, the motion so steady it almost lulled me back under.
My name followed, a soft murmur in the dark.
I didn’t want to wake up.
Sleep felt heavy and deep and safe—like sinking under warm water, where nothing could reach me. But the voice came again, low and careful, closer this time.
“Quinn…”
The sound of it tugged at me, the familiar voice pulling me toward the surface. My eyelids fluttered but didn’t stay open. My body felt too stiff—a dull ache pulsed in my ribs and throat, but I didn’t want to acknowledge it.
That hand continued combing through my hair. It was so comforting.
When I finally forced my eyes to stay open, I saw him.
Graham sat on the edge of the bed, the lamp casting a muted glow across his face. His eyebrows were drawn tight, but there was a faint smile at the corners of his mouth. He studied me, gaze roaming like he was searching for something important.
I stared at him, disoriented. His presence made sense to me, though my mind didn’t want to remember the reason I was here. It was like the memory stung too much. It was better to leave it alone.
“I have something for the pain, if you want them,” he said quietly.
When I didn’t reply, he held out a hand, two small pills resting in his palm.
“I have some water, too,” he added, nodding to the glass on the nightstand.
My mind was sluggish, and I did nothing but blink down at the medicine.
He lifted a brow. “What?” he asked softly, a glimmer of humor threading through the worry in his voice. “You don’t trust me?”
My throat tightened, the words clawing their way up. “I don’t trust anyone anymore.”
My voice was hoarse and raw. I wasn’t even sure he understood me.
But his expression shifted, the small smile fading. He stilled, hand open and waiting.
I finally reached for the pills and popped them into my mouth. He handed me the glass, and I drank—first a sip, then a gulp, realizing too late how thirsty I was. The water was cool and soothing, and I’d drunk over half the glass when I handed it over.
I settled back into the pillows, pulling the duvet up to my chin. The exhaustion threatened to sweep me back under, but Graham’s weight didn’t move from beside me.
I cracked one eye open, enough to see him sitting there. Watching me.
“It’s been a few hours,” he said, barely above a whisper. “You should go back to sleep. But if you wanted—if you needed anything else—I’ll help you.”
I frowned, his words taking a moment to make sense. Something about leaving…I remembered wanting to go earlier. But that thought felt far away, irrelevant compared to the warmth of the bed, the softness of the down comforter, and the ache of my body.
I shook my head slowly. “No. I’m fine.”
Relief flickered across his face.
The lamp cast a halo around him, the edges of him blurring as I fought to remain awake. I wanted to stay awake long enough to ask him why he was still here, why he was looking at me like that. But sleep pulled harder.
And my eyes closed before I could stop them.
Iwas asleep in my bed when it happened.
It was spring, and I was exhausted from soccer practice. My window was open, letting in the fresh air.
It wasn’t even dark yet. My parents weren’t home. I’d just needed a quick nap before my brother and I figured out what we were going to eat for dinner.
I slept on my stomach. I always used to sleep on my stomach back then. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been asleep, but pain at the base of my skull woke me. A hand fisted in my hair, shoving my face into the mattress.
The next thing I was aware of was the heaviness on top of me.
Even with my face shoved against the mattress, I could smell him.
His breath was hot on the back of my neck.
I thought that I should scream, because something was absolutely wrong here.
But my face was forced so hard into the fabric that my teeth punctured the inside of my lips. No one would hear my scream.
The harder I fought, the less air I could find. My lungs burned; my ribs felt locked in iron. I tried to focus on anything but the horror. My young, teenage mind could barely understand what was happening.
I focused on the heaviness, the breaths that I fought for, and—not the pain.
When it stopped, when his body shook and went still, I was relieved.
It was over.
But then, he wrapped his hand around my throat.
My face was still against the mattress. I couldn’t scream as he squeezed, crushing my windpipe.
When I felt myself going, felt my consciousness fading, I made my entire body relax. I was limp. So still I barely breathed.
He thought I was dead. Maybe I was dead. A part of me, at least, never survived him.
Then he finally let me go, and disappeared.
When I woke, I felt like myself again—though I wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or a bad one.
The nightmare did not jar me. I’d expected it after what happened last night. It was a familiar one, worn into me like an old scar.
So I woke calm. Cold. That familiar, practiced numbness seeped through my veins, cauterizing the wounds last night had reopened.
I sat up slowly, ribs aching. Every muscle in my body throbbed as if I were one big bruise.
On the nightstand sat another glass of water and a couple of pain relievers.
I didn’t linger on who left them there before swallowing both.
My phone was lying near the water glass, plugged in and charging.
I frowned when I reached for it. I hadn’t left it there.
Thinking about it more, I’d lost track of it after the attack. Had Graham picked it up for me?
I shook my head, thankful it had a full battery and deciding not to wonder about how it had gotten here.
I checked the time, blanching when I realized it was after noon. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept so late.
I scrambled out of bed, going slower than I’d like. I hissed through my teeth as I stood. Damn, I felt awful.
Setting my phone back down, I looked around the room. My index finger instantly stroked the face of my watch, grounding me. It was the only thing I always kept with me. Graham had given me his sweatpants and a white T-shirt to sleep in. They swallowed me, but they were comfortable.
I found some clothes folded neatly on the dresser. They were mine. Not the ones I’d worn last night—the ones stained in my blood—but they were clothes from my dresser at the B my lip was swollen, and the cut beneath it burned. The bruising along my throat wasn’t too visible, thank God, but I still looked…like a victim.
My jaw clenched.
I turned on the shower and locked the door before I talked myself out of it. Graham’s clothes came off slowly, every movement a small ache. I stuffed them into a hamper by the door, ignoring the way his scent lingered on my bare skin.
The water was scalding when I stepped under the spray. It stung, but it also felt good. My lip throbbed. I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to get it wet, but I didn’t care. I needed to be clean.
I stood there, letting the cascading water ease my tight muscles, ignoring the sight of the purple bruises over my ribs.
Eventually I forced myself to move—to wash and shampoo my hair as quickly as my sore body would allow. I didn’t linger once the last bunch of suds were washed away.
I wrapped myself in one of the large, fluffy towels on a shelf. Once I was dry, I dressed in my clothes. I brushed my teeth and hair, then braided my damp locks before studying myself again. The mirror showed the same tired eyes and bandaged lip, but at least I looked presentable.
The bedroom was still empty when I returned. No sign of Graham. Part of me expected him to show up at any moment.
I moved quickly, gathering my phone and work bag. My pulse picked up as I neared the door and grabbed the knob. Taking a few breaths, I silently opened it, peeking out into the hall. The house was quiet. If I was lucky, Graham was in a different part of the house—or gone entirely.
I wasn’t ungrateful for what he did. But the thought of seeing him again after last night—after he saw me like that—was embarrassing. I winced at the thought of facing him.
After a few long moments of silence, I left Graham’s bedroom. The layout of his home was simple enough; I remembered the front door being a straight shot through the kitchen and living room from here.
My heart thudded as I walked, lightly and quickly on the balls of my feet. I didn’t see him in the kitchen or the living room. My gaze locked onto the front door ahead of me, freedom only a few steps away.
Almost there.
I reached for the handle when his voice made me freeze.
“Feeling better today, Quinn?”