Chapter 3 #2
I felt like a hypocrite. Even as I'd helped her through her trauma, even as I'd traced gentle patterns across her palm and wrists, I'd been fighting an attraction I had no right to feel.
Her vulnerability should have made her off-limits, but something about Lottie called to me on a primal level that had nothing to do with protection and everything to do with possession.
I scrubbed a hand over my face, disgusted with myself.
She was barely more than a kid, traumatized, and looking to me for safety—not whatever twisted desire was coursing through my veins.
The way she'd relaxed under my touch, the small sounds she'd made when I stroked her hair.
..Christ. What kind of monster got turned on while comforting an assault victim?
The same kind who'd been watching her since the first time she walked into Salvation, a voice whispered in my head. The kind who couldn't take his eyes off her even when he knew he should.
I stood up, needing to put some distance between us before these thoughts went any further. Lottie slept peacefully, her blonde curls spread across my pillow, her lips slightly parted. Even with the bruise darkening her cheek, she was beautiful in a way that made my chest ache.
Moving quietly, I stepped into the hallway and pulled out my phone. It was just after five a.m., but Eric, our computer geek, was as nocturnal as they came.
He answered on the second ring. "What do you need?"
I wasn’t ever surprised at Eric. I kept my voice low, glancing back toward the bedroom where Lottie slept. "Info."
"Name it." No questions, no hesitation. That was Eric.
"Background check. Full sweep. Charlotte Mallory, goes by Lottie. Early twenties, works at Sunny's Mart on Nebraska. Lives in an apartment nearby."
"The Little from the club?" His voice sharpened with interest. "The one you spoke to tonight?"
I grimaced. Of course he'd know. "Yeah."
"What happened?"
I gave him the abbreviated version, my jaw tightening as I described finding her in the alley.
"On it," he said when I finished. “Is she staying with you?”
"For now." I leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted. "That's why I need the background check. Need to know what we're dealing with."
"We?" There was a hint of something in his voice—curiosity, maybe concern.
"Figure of speech," I muttered, though we both knew it wasn't. The team would go into immediate protection mode as soon as they heard of a Little in any sort of trouble.
"I'll have something for you in a few hours," Eric said, mercifully not pushing further.
"Thanks. Make it a priority." I ended the call and rubbed my eyes, the lack of sleep finally catching up to me.
In the kitchen, I started a pot of coffee, listening for any sounds from the bedroom. Nothing. Lottie was still sleeping soundly, which was good. Her body needed rest to heal.
I'd just poured my first cup when my phone vibrated. Eric already? That was fast, even for him. But the caller ID showed Dion's name instead.
"Everything okay at the club?" I answered, keeping my voice low.
"Yeah, all quiet after you left. " Dion paused. "I understand you’ve had some excitement, called in Doc."
I knew Doc wouldn’t have shared personal details, but our team didn't keep secrets from each other, especially when it came to potential threats or vulnerabilities.
"That Little from the club was attacked," I said simply. "Three drunk assholes cornered her on her way home."
Dion's sharp intake of breath was followed by a string of curses. "Is she okay?"
"Physically, mostly. Bruised cheek, bump on her head. Mentally..." I trailed off, thinking of how small she'd looked curled up in my bed. "She's shaken up. Scared." I also wanted to know where the rest of her bruises had come from.
"Where is she now?"
"Guest room. Sleeping."
The silence that followed was heavy with unasked questions. Finally, Dion said, "You bringing her in?"
It was our shorthand for offering protection, for bringing someone under the team's wing. I'd been asking myself the same question since I'd found her in that alley.
"Yep." I decided.
He chuckled.
"I'll check in later," I said, ending the call before Dion could ask anything I didn’t want to answer.
After finishing the call, I poured a coffee and a tea, carrying them back to the bedroom. Lottie was still sleeping, her face peaceful despite the bruising. Mr. Snuggles had slipped from her grasp and now lay beside her on the pillow, one arm stretched toward her as if in protection.
I set the tea on the nightstand and sat in the chair, content to let her sleep as long as she needed. The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow over her blonde curls. In slumber she looked even younger, more vulnerable.
What was I going to do with her? The question circled my mind as I sipped my coffee.
I couldn’t let her go back to that apartment, couldn’t let her keep working at that convenience store where she was a target for every lowlife in the area.
She wasn’t my responsibility—not officially, anyway.
But somehow, she had become that the moment I’d found her in that alley.
Or maybe even before that, when I’d first spotted her at the club, looking so out of place with her teddy bear and innocent eyes.
A soft rustle from the bed drew my attention. Lottie was stirring, her eyelids fluttering as she drifted toward consciousness. I watched awareness return to her face, followed by a flicker of confusion, then memory. Her hand went to her cheek, fingers gingerly touching the bruise there.
“Morning,” I said quietly, not wanting to startle her.
She turned toward my voice, wincing slightly at the movement. Her forehead creased not only from pain but from something else—maybe the memory of last night. “You stayed,” she murmured, sounding surprised.
“I said I would.” I pointed to the cup of tea. “How are you feeling?”
She pushed herself up on the pillows, grimacing. “Sore. Like I got hit by a truck.” Her gaze dropped to the tea, then flickered away. Then she blinked rapidly, a flash of panic crossing her eyes. She pressed both palms to her temples.
“Lottie?” I leaned forward. “You okay?”
She forced a small smile. “Thank you.” She lifted the mug to her lips, but her hand shook.
I set my cup down. “Are you hungry? I can make breakfast.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, no—you’ve already done so much. I should go—”
“Go where, exactly?” My voice was neutral, but firm. She froze.
“Home, I guess.” Her words were rushed. She bit her lower lip. “I have work at four.”
My chest tightened. “Lottie, we need to talk about your situation.”
She clutched the mug so hard her knuckles whitened. She looked like she was going to bolt.
“What do you mean?” her voice wavered.
I took a breath. “Your apartment is dangerous. Sunny’s puts you at risk every day. Last night wasn’t just bad luck—it was a predictable outcome of your circumstances.”
Her chin lifted defiantly, but her eyes darted toward the door. Her eyes looked a bit glassy, almost feverish. "I can't just leave. My job, my apartment—it's all I have."
"It's not safe, Lottie. Those men who attacked you? That neighborhood is full of them."
She shook her head, a jerky motion that seemed to cause her pain. "You don't understand. I need my job. I need my apartment." Her voice took on a desperate edge. "I can't just...move."
"Why not?" I kept my tone gentle but firm. "There are safer places, better jobs."
"Because I can't afford it!" The words burst from her, sharp and frustrated. "Do you think I live there by choice? Do you think I work at Sunny's because I enjoy being harassed by drunk customers?"
I blinked, taken aback by her sudden vehemence. "I'm not judging your choices. I'm concerned for your safety."
"They're not choices," she said, her voice cracking. She set the tea down with trembling hands and pushed herself to the edge of the bed. "They're necessities. I need to go home now."
"Lottie—"
"Please." She looked up at me, her blue eyes swimming with unshed tears. "I need to go home."
Something wasn't right. The panic in her expression seemed disproportionate, even considering what she'd been through. I studied her more carefully—the slight sheen of sweat on her forehead, the way her hands trembled.
"Are you feeling all right?" I asked, frowning.
"I'm fine." She stood too quickly, swaying on her feet. "Just...just need to get home."
I rose from my chair, reaching out to steady her. "You're not fine. Something's wrong."
"Nothing's wrong!" She pulled away from my touch. "I just need to go home, okay? I have...things I need to do."
"What things?" I pressed, my instincts screaming that she was hiding something. "Lottie, I'm trying to help you."
"I don't need your help!" Her voice rose, then broke on a sob. "I don't need you to fix my life. I don't need you to tell me how dangerous everything is. Don't you think I know that? Don't you think I'd change it if I could?"
I took a step back, giving her space. Her chest heaved with emotion, blinking back tears.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "You're right. I overstepped." I needed to back up. I couldn’t help her by bullying her.
She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. "Can you please just take me home? Please?"
The desperation in her voice made my chest tighten. I wanted to argue, to make her see reason, but she clearly wasn't in a state to hear it. And I had no right to force my opinions on her, no matter how well-intentioned they were.
"All right," I said, recognizing the lost battle. "Let me get you some clean clothes first." I’d make sure someone was watching the building.
I found a smaller shirt of mine and some clean shorts that would go past her knees.
I collected her torn dress on the bathroom floor, folded it as best I could despite the damage, and brought it to her along with her shoes.
I turned my back while she changed, the rustle of fabric punctuated by her uneven breathing.
"Your shirt," she said quietly when she was done. "I should give it back."
"Keep it," I replied, not turning around until I heard her small sound of acknowledgment.
When I faced her again, my chest tightened. She'd refused the clothes and stuck to hers, looking even smaller in her ruined dress, the bruises stark against her pale skin. Her eyes had a glassy, distant quality that worried me.
The drive to her apartment was silent and tense. I kept glancing at her, noting the way she pressed her fingertips to her temples, how she seemed to be fighting to stay upright. Something was seriously wrong, but she'd made it clear my concern wasn't welcome.
When we pulled up outside her building, my jaw clenched. The place was even worse in daylight—crumbling brick, barred windows, trash scattered across the small patch of dead grass that passed for a yard. A group of men loitered on the corner, eyeing my SUV with undisguised interest.
"I'll walk you up," I said, already reaching for my door handle.
"No." Her voice was firm despite her obvious weakness. "I can manage from here."
"Lottie—"
"Please." She looked at me, her blue eyes pleading. "Just let me go."
Frustration burned in my chest, hot and unfamiliar. I wasn't used to feeling this helpless, this...dismissed. "At least let me see you to your door."
"I don't want you to see where I live," she whispered, shame coloring her words. "Please understand."
I didn't understand. Not at all. But I nodded stiffly, watching as she gathered her teddy bear and pressed it against her chest to hide the tear in her dress.
"Thank you," she said, her voice small. "For everything."
Then she was gone, hurrying up the cracked walkway with her head down, disappearing into the building without looking back. I sat there for several minutes, watching the entrance, half-expecting her to return.
She didn't.
With a muttered curse, I put the SUV in drive and pulled away, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. The image of her pale face, the bruises, the way her hands had trembled—it all haunted me as I drove. Something wasn't right, and I was leaving her alone to face it.
But what choice did I have? She'd made it clear she didn't want my help, didn't want me involved in her life. I had no claim on her, no right to force my protection on her.
Much as I suddenly wanted to.