Chapter 25 #2
Dorian slams into me, catching me before I hit the ground, pulling me tight against his chest. He keeps his hand on the back of my head, keeping me down, shielding me with his own body as the chaos continues.
The ringing in my ears fades, replaced by this raw, high-pitched scream.
I twist in Dorian’s grip and glance over my shoulder.
Leah’s sprawled on the ground, clutching her shoulder. Blood’s soaking through her clothes, and her face is twisted in this wild, angry snarl— the look of someone who just lost everything. Police are already on her, weapons trained and ready.
"Are you hit? Della, are you hit? Talk to me." Dorian’s eyes are scanning my face, my body in a wild, frantic concern.
"I..." I look down at my arm. A long, shallow gash from the glass is bleeding, but I'm not shot. "I... I bit her," I whisper, the words sounding stupid, insane.
A choked, hysterical laugh bursts from his chest. He pulls me tighter, burying his face in my hair, his body shaking.
"I know," he rasps, his voice breaking. "I know. I've got you. You're safe. I've got you."
* * *
Della
"She's secure!" a uniformed officer yells, and I see them hauling a screaming, resisting Leah to her feet, her hands cuffed behind her back.
David is there, a grim-faced shadow, handling the police, pointing to the other two men who are now also in cuffs.
The world is a mess of flashing lights and muffled shouting, my body is a symphony of new aches, and my arm stings where the glass cut me.
"Ma'am? Ma'am, we need to check you out."
A paramedic is kneeling in front of me, a young woman with kind, serious eyes. She has a large bag open on the floor.
"Let her look at you, Della," Dorian murmurs, his grip loosening just enough for the medic to get to me but he doesn't let go.
"That's a nasty gash," the medic says, applying pressure on my arm. "I need to check your vitals. Can you tell me your name?"
"Della Toma," I mumble. My head is swimming, a nauseating combination of vodka, adrenaline, and the lingering fumes of chloroform.
"Okay, Della. I'm just going to—"
It hits me then, a violent, full-body rejection. The vodka. My stomach clenches, and I lurch forward, shoving myself away from Dorian. "I'm... I'm gonna be sick."
I barely make it two steps before I'm on my hands and knees on the pavement, my body convulsing as I throw up, the burn of alcohol and bile searing my throat. It's ugly and undignified.
A strong hand settles on my back, and another gently holds my hair away from my face. Dorian. He doesn't flinch. He just stays there, a solid presence in the spinning chaos, rubbing my back until the heaving stops.
I'm left shaking, my throat raw, but my head is clearer.
The medic is there with a bottle of water.
"Rinse," she says gently. After I do, she tries again.
“Della, how much did you drink?”
I try to laugh. It comes out as a rasp. “Ask the psycho with the bottle.”
“She was forced,” Dorian snaps.
The medic doesn’t respond to him. She focuses on me.
"You've had a serious shock, and you've ingested an unknown amount of alcohol. We need to take you to the hospital; get you checked out."
The word hits me like a slap. Hospital.
The last time I was in a hospital, I woke up to find my life had been carved out, leaving an empty, aching void.
My breath hitches. "No."
"Della, it's just a precaution. We need to—"
"No." I say it louder, stronger. I look at her, and I know I'm shaking, but I don't care. "I'm not going to the hospital."
"Della, she's right," Dorian starts, his protective-alpha voice kicking in. "You need to be seen. You're in shock."
"Dorian." I cut him off, grabbing the front of his shirt. My voice is a raw whisper, and it costs me every last bit of my strength. "Please. Please, don't make me. I can't."
He looks at me, really looks at me—past the blood, past the vomit, into the raw terror in my eyes. He sees it's not stubbornness. It's a wound. And he, finally, understands.
His entire posture changes. The argument dies on his lips. He nods, a single, sharp motion, and turns to the paramedic. His voice is different. Not arguing. Commanding.
"Do whatever you have to do, here. If she's stable, I'm taking her home. I will not leave her side for a second."
The medic looks from his iron-willed face to my desperate one. She sighs, defeated.
"She's lucid and conscious. She’s intoxicated, but stable. Vomiting worked in her favor—she likely expelled a lot of the alcohol. We don’t need to pump anything," she says after checking my pulse and blood pressure.
"She's within her rights to refuse transport. But you should monitor her. Make sure she drinks lots of fluids and gets a good rest. If she's confused, if she gets sick again, or gets worse in any way, you call 911. Understood?"
"Understood," Dorian vows, his voice a gravelly promise.
David appears at his side as the medic bandages my arm.
"We're clear. They're taking our statements in the morning. Let's get out of here."
I try to stand, but my legs feel like water. Before I can stumble, Dorian is there. He scoops me up in his arms, one arm under my knees, the other securely around my back. I'm too exhausted to protest. I just melt, my head finding the solid curve of his shoulder and inhale his scent.
The next thing I know, I’m in the backseat of a car. Dorian’s jacket is draped over me.
I feel the car stop. I'm still in his arms as he carries me up the walkway to the house. Silvia is standing there, and I can see how worried she is.
“I’m fine, Chiquita. Don’t worry.” I tell her, my voice rough.
“I was so scared, Della,” she whispers as she gently takes my hand. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Now, go get some sleep.”
She steps aside and points Dorian to my room.
He walks into the quiet space and lays me on the bed with a gentleness I barely recognize. As he starts to pull the blanket up I whisper:
"Wait."
The warehouse, the ropes, the cold... the sickening smell of cheap vodka and fear—it’s all still clinging to my skin. "I... I need a shower first. Wash it out."
“Let me do it, Della.” His eyes, wild and frantic moments ago, soften to an intense focus as he carefully helps me to my feet and walks me into the bathroom.
He tests the water, adjusts the temperature until it’s just right—perfectly warm. Then he helps me peel off what’s left of my ruined, bloody clothes, slow and careful, like he’s afraid I’ll break.
He stops and, for a second, he just looks at me. Then he sheds his own clothes—shirt, jeans, everything. This isn’t seduction. It's about stripping away everything that’s kept us apart.
Just two people, nothing in between, nothing left to hide.
He guides me under the shower, steps in behind me. I close my eyes, leaning back against him, feeling his hands, infinitely gentle, begin to wash me clean. He’s washing off more than blood and sweat. He’s chasing away the stink of cheap vodka, the ghosts clinging to me from that warehouse.
As if time didn’t exist and the whole world was on pause, he takes the shampoo and starts washing my hair. His fingers massage my scalp slow and steady, like he’s not just untangling my hair but trying to smooth out the knots in my head.
With every cascade of warm water and fragrant foam running down my back, I feel my dark thoughts, the memory of Leah... all of it swirling and disappearing down the drain.
We do not speak. Not with words anyway.
His hands say everything—every touch, every stroke whispers of love and worry and something rawer… scared.
He slowly turns me in his arms to face him. As his eyes meet mine, I can see them burning. He’s not the cold, fierce man from the warehouse anymore. He is my Dorian, now, revealing his vulnerability.
My hand shakes as I put it on his chest, right over his heart, and I feel it all—pounding heartbeats, diluted rage, and a new, desperate promise.
He covers my hand with his, holding it tight against his heart. With his other hand, he gently cups my jaw, his thumb stroking my skin. Then his forehead touches mine and I feel his eyes close, both of us holding on to this tiny pause in the world.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours. I don’t know. Don’t care.
He finally steps back and turns off the water. He wraps me in a huge, soft towel, and takes a moment to wrap another around his waist. Then he lifts me in his arms as if I weigh nothing and carries me straight to bed.
He tucks the blanket up around me, and I can see him struggling, fighting for words that can't stay silent any longer.
"I’ve never been so afraid in my whole life, Della. Seeing you in that chair, not moving..." his voice breaks.
"Just, hold me." I whisper, grabbing his arm.
His eyes light up with hope and relief. He slips in beside me and pulls me to his chest so close I forget where I end and he begins.
That’s all I need.
He buries his face in my hair, and I feel his body shudder with a sob trapped somewhere deep in his chest.
"Della, I am so sorry. For... for all of it. For everything." he rasps, his voice thick with emotion.
I don't have the strength to answer. Nor the desire.
I just hold on to his arm wrapped around me, anchor myself to him, and let the world dissolve.
There is no warehouse, no fear, no past—just his arms around me, the one place in the universe I feel truly, completely safe.