Chapter 21 Daisy
DAISY
The door doesn't just open. It explodes inward with a crack that splits the air, and I'm already halfway toward the back of the cabin when I hear Adam's voice, raw and guttural, a sound past calling my name or shouting a warning that barely qualifies as human.
"You fucking dared to hurt MY WIFE."
I spin around, my freed hands still tingling from the rope burns, and I see him. Adam. Filling the doorway like he was built specifically to break through it, his chest heaving, his eyes locked on Cole with a hatred so pure it makes the air feel thin.
Cole laughs. It's that same laugh I remember from years ago, the one that used to make my blood run cold, and my feet keep moving backward even though I can't look away. "There he is. The man who bought himself a wife."
"Daisy." Adam's voice drops, and for just a second his eyes find mine. "You're okay. You're going to be okay."
Cole moves.
He's fast. I forgot how fast he could be when he wanted to hurt someone. He grabs the knife I dropped by the sink (my knife, the one I used to cut myself free) and slashes sideways at Adam in one vicious arc. Adam doesn't dodge fast enough.
The blade catches his forearm, and I hear myself scream his name as blood blooms through his sleeve.
But Adam doesn't stop. He doesn't even flinch.
He just keeps coming, driving forward like the wound is nothing, and his fist connects with Cole's jaw hard enough that I hear the crack from across the room.
Cole stumbles but doesn't go down. "She tell you what she is? What she came from? Trash, Smith. White fucking trash, and you paid premium—"
Adam hits him again. And again. Cole swings the knife wildly, but Adam catches his wrist this time, twists, and the weapon clatters to the floor. Then he's got Cole pinned against the counter, one hand around his throat, and his voice is so quiet I almost can't hear it over my own heartbeat.
"You don't get to say her name. You don't get to look at her. You don't get to exist in the same fucking zip code."
"Adam." My voice comes out raw. "Adam, stop."
He freezes. His grip doesn't loosen, but he looks at me. That's when the deputies come through the door.
There's shouting, commands I can barely process, and then Adam steps back with his hands raised while two officers take over.
Cole is on the ground, getting cuffed, and he's still talking (still spitting poison about how I'm damaged goods, how Adam got cheated, how none of this would've happened if I'd just stayed where I belonged) screaming, most of all, that Adam only has me because he bought me.
Adam crouches down at my side and doesn't so much as glance at him.
"You don't own her," he says, low and even.
"Neither do I." Nobody else is listening to Cole anymore.
"Ma'am?" A deputy is suddenly in front of me, a woman with kind eyes and a calm voice. "Are you injured? Can you tell me your name?"
"Daisy." I'm shaking. When did I start shaking? "Daisy Williams. I mean… Daisy Smith. Williams. I don't—"
"It's okay." She guides me toward a chair that isn't the one I was tied to. "We've got paramedics outside. Just breathe."
Adam is across the room giving his statement to another officer, but his eyes keep finding mine. His sleeve is soaked through with blood now, dripping onto the floor, and he doesn't seem to notice or care. All he sees is me.
I want to go to him. I want to bury my face in his chest and let him hold me until the world makes sense again.
But there are procedures, apparently. Statements to give.
Injuries to document. The paramedics want to look at my wrists, at the bruise forming on my cheekbone where Cole backhanded me in the cabin.
"How did you find me?" I ask the female deputy while a medic wraps gauze around my raw wrists.
"Your husband called 911 with the location from your phone," the deputy says, flipping her notepad shut. "He reached the drive just ahead of us. He was told to wait. He went through that door anyway."
She glances at Adam, a look between professional disapproval and grudging respect on her face.
"We were seconds behind him," she says. "He could have made a dangerous situation worse. We still need his full statement."
He came. He actually came.
"Thank you," I say to the deputy. "Thank you for getting here in time."
She nods, tucking the notepad into her pocket. "We're going to transport Mr. Redding to county lockup now. Someone will be in touch about your statement."
They load Cole into one cruiser, and I watch through the cabin window as he disappears into the back seat. He's still talking, his mouth moving behind the glass, but I can't hear him anymore. Good.
The hospital is too bright. Everything smells like antiseptic and anxiety.
A nurse practitioner in blue scrubs (Maria, according to her badge) takes one look at us and guides us toward adjacent exam rooms. She pauses at the door, looking between me and Adam.
"Ma'am, would you like him to stay with you, or would you prefer privacy?"
I glance at Adam. His forearm is still wrapped in the EMT's temporary bandage, blood seeping through. He looks like he'd stand in that hallway forever if I asked him to.
"Stay," I say. "Please."
Maria nods, no judgment. "We'll do the exam together then. Private portions, I'll ask him to step out. That work for you?"
"Yes."
She checks my wrist first, gentle fingers probing the swelling. "Can you move it for me? Good. And this bruise on your cheek, when did this happen?"
"He hit me," I say. "Before I got free."
"Okay. I'll check that too." She makes notes on her tablet. "Any other injuries I should know about? Anywhere else he touched you or hurt you?"
"My shoulder. He twisted it, and my ribs hurt where I hit the car." I point with my better hand. "I didn't know which part to start with."
"Alright." She turns to Adam. "Your turn. Let's see that arm."
He holds it out without complaint. Maria unwraps the bandage and I see the gash clearly for the first time: jagged, ugly, still seeping.
"This needs stitches," she says. "You okay with needles?"
"Fine."
She numbs the wound before she starts the stitches. Adam keeps his arm still. Doesn't make a sound. Just watches me the whole time, like I'm the one who needs monitoring.
"You're staring," I say finally.
"Yeah."
"It's creepy."
"Don't care."
A smile tries to form on my face, which seems impossible given that I was tied to a chair three hours ago. "You got stabbed because of me."
"I got stabbed because a psychopath had a knife. You freed yourself. You were already running when I got there." He says it like it matters. Like he needs me to know he noticed.
"I was scared," I admit. "I kept thinking about what he said, about… about the arrangement, and how maybe this was what I deserved for taking money to—"
"Stop." Adam's hand finds mine, and his grip is warm and solid despite the fresh bandage. "You didn't deserve any of this. Not then, not today, not ever. That man is a monster, and you survived him. Twice."
I want to believe him. I don't know how yet.
She checks my shoulder and ribs before arranging imaging and a fuller examination. Hours later, they tell me nothing is broken or dislocated, but the bruising and strain need rest and follow-up. Maria makes me repeat the warning signs before she lets the paperwork become someone else's problem.
They release us around midnight with instructions for wound care and a stack of paperwork about victim advocacy services.
Adam's car is still at the cabin, so Grayson has it brought over, and then we're sitting in the parking lot of the hospital in his ridiculous expensive sedan, and neither of us seems to know what comes next.
"I should probably tell you about him," I say to the windshield. "About Cole. About what happened before."
"Only if you want to."
I turn to look at him. He waits.
"I met Cole when I was twenty-two," I say. "He was a regular at the coffee shop where I worked. Charming. Funny. He remembered my name after one visit, and by the third, he was asking about my day like he actually cared about the answer."
Adam doesn't say anything. Just listens.
"My dad was driving long-haul routes back then, gone for weeks at a time. Mom was still alive. I was lonely, I guess. And Cole made me feel like I was the most important person in any room."
"How long before it changed?"
I pick at the edge of the discharge papers.
"Six months. Maybe seven. It started small: he didn't like my friends, he thought my skirts were too short, he wanted to know where I was every second of the day.
I told myself it was because he loved me so much.
That's what he said. He couldn't stand the thought of losing me. "
"And you believed him."
"I was twenty-two, Adam. I didn't know what love was supposed to look like. I kept believing his promises, and I thought maybe that was just how it worked. You give pieces of yourself away until there's nothing left."
Adam's knuckles go white on the steering wheel. "When did he first hit you?"
"Can I—" I stop. Start again. "Is it okay if I tell it my way? Not in order, just… the pieces I can manage?"
"Yes." He turns to face me, and his eyes are wet. "Whatever you need. I'm not going anywhere."
A seam gives in my chest. It doesn't feel broken. It feels released. Like a door I've been holding shut for years.
"The first time was a Tuesday," I say. "I remember because I was supposed to have dinner with my mom, and I had to cancel. I told her I had a migraine. She believed me."
"What happened?"
"I came home late from work. Twenty minutes. There was traffic, and my phone died, and I couldn't call him. He was convinced I was cheating (he was always convinced I was cheating) and when I walked in the door, he backhanded me so hard I saw stars."
Adam makes a sound low in his throat. Pain and rage, or the place where they meet.