Chapter 6 #2
Stephy's eyes found mine, and something vulnerable crossed her face, something that went beyond physical need. "Lee? Could you...could you help me? Please?"
Louisa and I exchanged a look. She nodded slightly, understanding passing between us—the kind of wordless communication that came from years of family crises.
"I'll go get new sheets, Sophia will help me," Louisa said tactfully, looking at Sophia. "Fresh ones are in the main house. We’ll go fetch them.”
After they left, closing the door with pointed discretion, I helped Stephy stand. She was shaky, weak from three days of barely eating, but determined. Her fingers gripped my arm hard enough to leave marks, but I didn't mind. At the bathroom door, she paused, frustration crossing her face.
"I can't..." She gestured at her shirt with hands that trembled. "My ribs. I can't lift my arms that high. And the buttons..." She held up her hands, showing me how they shook.
"I've got you," I said softly, my throat tight.
I helped her with the buttons of the pajama top, keeping my touch clinical, careful, trying not to think about how many times I'd dreamed of undressing her under very different circumstances.
But when the shirt fell away, my hands stilled.
The world stopped. My vision went red, then white, then red again.
The bruises were everywhere.
Her ribs were painted purple and black like someone had used her for a canvas of violence.
Finger marks on her upper arms, four distinct prints on each side where he'd grabbed her hard enough to leave his signature in her skin.
A handprint on her shoulder, perfectly preserved in purple.
More bruises down her sides like she'd been thrown into something hard.
When she turned slightly, I saw more across her back, her spine a roadmap of brutality.
The shape of them, the pattern—I could read the whole attack in the marks on her skin. Could see where he'd grabbed, where he'd thrown, where he'd held her down. The scratch marks on her thighs where she'd fought, her own fingernails leaving defensive wounds as she'd tried to get away.
I must have made a sound—something between a growl and a sob—because she turned back to face me, her arms crossing protectively over herself, trying to hide the evidence.
"Lee..."
"I'm going to kill him." The words came out flat, emotionless, which made them worse. Each word precise, measured, a promise rather than a threat. "When I find him, I'm going to take him apart piece by piece. I'm going to—"
"Stop." She put a hand on my chest, over my racing heart. I could feel my pulse pounding against her palm, violence trying to claw its way out. "I'm okay. I'm here. I'm safe."
"He hurt you." My voice cracked, broke, shattered. "He put his hands on you, and I wasn't there to stop it. I was eight hundred miles away drinking beer while he—"
"But you came for me after. That's what matters." Her eyes were steady on mine, clearer than they'd been in days. "I need you here with me, not lost in anger. Please. I can't... I can't handle you disappearing into rage right now. I need you."
I nodded, swallowing the violence down like broken glass, and helped her with the rest of her clothes.
Each new bruise was cataloged, filed away, added to the list of reasons why her attacker would pay.
My hands shook as I helped her into the shower, adjusting the water temperature when her bruised ribs made it hard for her to reach.
She stood under the spray for a long time, just letting the water wash over her, and I could see the tension slowly leaving her shoulders.
"I fought," she said suddenly, water streaming down her face, mixing with what might have been tears. "I want you to know that. I fought hard. That's why there's so many bruises. I didn't make it easy for him."
"I know you did. I can see it." My voice was thick with pride and pain. "You're a fighter, Steph. Always have been."
"I was so scared I forgot that for a while. But when he... when he grabbed me, something kicked in. I remembered what you taught me. About going for the eyes, the throat. About using my nails. About not stopping until you're safe."
"That's my girl."
She managed to wash her hair with my help, wincing when she had to lift her arms. I kept my touch gentle, professional, even though inside I was plotting every way I’d destroy her attacker.
When she was clean, I wrapped her in the softest towel I could find, helped her into fresh pajamas—Sophia's, soft cotton with little moons on them this time.
"Better?" I asked.
She nodded, exhausted from the effort. "Much. I feel human again. Less like a victim, more like a survivor, and I don’t smell like a goat anymore,” she said with a little smile.
When I opened the bedroom door to help her back to bed, the room had been transformed. Fresh sheets, so white they almost glowed. Flowers on the nightstand—wildflowers from the meadow. The window cracked to let in fresh air. It smelled like hope.
I got her settled, pulled the covers up, and turned to leave her to rest. But the moment I stepped outside, the weight of what I'd seen hit me like a sledgehammer. Owen was there, stopping in his tracks. He must’ve been coming to check on some other appliance that didn’t need checking.
But seeing him, seeing the man who’d raised me for half my life, the closest thing I’d had to a father now, broke something in me.
I made it three steps from the cabin before my knees buckled. I went down hard, hands in the dirt, the image of her bruised body burned into my retinas. A sound escaped me—something primal, wounded, furious.
"Let it out, son." Owen's voice, calm and steady. I hadn't heard him approach, but suddenly he was there, his hand solid on my back. "Let it all out."
"He hurt her." The words tore out of me, raw and bleeding, between sobs. "There's not a part of her that isn't bruised. She's covered in his handprints like he was trying to own her, break her."
"But he didn't break her. She's here. She's safe. She's healing."
I looked up at him, his face blurred through my tears. “I should have been there. Should have protected her."
"You can't protect someone from eight hundred miles away. But you got to her as fast as you could. You brought her home. That's what matters now."
Owen helped me stand, kept his hand on my shoulder, grounding me. "Channel the anger into protection. Into healing. Into making sure she knows she's safe now. The rest—the justice, the reckoning—that'll come. But right now, she needs you steady."
Clay's truck pulled up just then, and my brother got out carrying a guitar case—not Stephy's, but a new one, the tag still hanging from it.
"Picked this up at that music shop in Austin," he said, not quite meeting my eyes, embarrassed by his own thoughtfulness. "Was there for the rodeo and thought... well, music helps sometimes. When she's ready."
"Clay." My throat was too tight to say more.
"Don't make it weird," he said, but squeezed my shoulder. "Just... when she's ready. Music is healing, you know? Thought she might need something that doesn't have bad memories attached."
He left the guitar and drove off before I could properly thank him, which was probably intentional.
Inside the cabin, I set up my phone with a small speaker, put on a Spotify playlist of soft instrumental music—nothing with words, nothing that might trigger memories, just gentle guitar and piano that filled the silence.
Stephy stirred slightly when the music started, and something in her face eased.
Day four, Ivy came.
"I want to help," she said simply when she arrived. "I know what it's like. The fear. The feeling like you'll never be safe again. Let me sit with her. You need rest."
It was the beginning of something—a friendship that would grow from shared trauma into shared strength. Ivy sat with Stephy for hours, sometimes talking softly about books, recipes, anything gentle and normal. Sometimes just sitting in silence, holding her hand.
“She squeezed my hand,” Ivy told me when I got back from a forced shower. “And she woke up for a minute.”
My heart dropped into my boots. “She asked for me?”
“She did,” Ivy said, smiling. “She whispered, ‘Lee?’ And I told her you were here… but we’d sent you to shower because you were stinking up the place.”
A choked laugh escaped me. “Yeah? How’d she take that?”
“She gave the tiniest smile,” Ivy said softly. “Then she went right back to sleep.”
Stephy was still fighting in her sleep that night—pushing at invisible hands, whimpering "no" and "stop" and my name like a prayer. I'd put on the soft music Clay had suggested, and it seemed to help. She'd settle faster, go deeper into real rest.
On day five, she woke up.
Really woke up.
It was barely dawn, that gray hour before the world commits to morning.
I was dozing in the chair, the guitar Clay had brought leaning against the wall, soft music still playing, when I felt her watching me.
Her eyes were open, clear for the first time since LA, focused on my face like she was memorizing it.
"Hey," I said softly, not moving, afraid I'd spook her.
"Hey." Her voice was rough, barely there. "How long?"
"Five days."
Her eyes widened slightly, tracking around the room—taking in the flowers, the guitar, the evidence of care everywhere. "Five days? I've been sleeping for five days?"
"Your brain needed to protect you. The doctor said it's normal after trauma."
She processed that, then noticed the guitar. "Is that... that's not mine."
"Clay brought it. Bought it at the rodeo last weekend because he thought you might want one without memories attached. When you're ready."
Her eyes filled with tears. "Your family... they don't even know me."
"They know you're important to me. And now you're important to them too."
"I remember pieces. The shower. You seeing..." She trailed off, then met my eyes. "You were so angry. When you saw the bruises."
"I still am," I admitted. "But you were right. You need me here, not lost in rage."
"Sophia... she was so gentle. Like a real nurse."
"She is a real nurse. A damn good one. Said your vitals are strong, you're healing well."
She was quiet for a moment, taking in the soft music, the morning light, the safety of this place. "I'm hungry. Like, really hungry."
I couldn't help but laugh, relief making me lightheaded. "Maggie will be thrilled. She's been cooking for an army."
"Lee?" She squeezed my hand. "What happens now?"
"Whatever you need to happen. You're safe here, Steph. For as long as you need."
She nodded, then carefully sat up. The bruises were fading now, green and yellow instead of purple and black. Still there, but not as angry. Not as fresh.
"I want to meet them properly," she said. "Your family. When I'm not unconscious or crying or falling apart."
"They'd like that. They've been taking shifts, making sure we have everything we need."
"Ivy was here. I remember her voice. She said she understood."
"She does. Her old man was violent.”
A small smile crossed her face — the first real one I’d seen since LA. “I’d… like to be her friend,” she said softly. “I haven’t felt this safe in a long time.”
“You already are,” I told her. “Have been since the moment I brought you home.”
Her smile widened a little more, and I knew she was coming back. Slowly, carefully, but she was coming back. The music played softly in the background, the morning light painted everything gold, and for the first time in five days, I felt like I could breathe.
Everything else—the investigation, the reckoning, the absolute destruction I was going to rain down on everyone who'd failed her—all of that could wait.
Right now, Stephy was safe, she was healing, and she was home.
That was enough.