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Her stoicism both astounds and concerns me. I wish I could ease her suffering entirely, to take away the anguish etched into her features. The intensity of her pain tugs at my very being, awakening a fierce battle within. My instincts urge me to shield her, to protect her from all harm, but I must remain restrained, mindful of the fragile trust we're beginning to build.
In this moment, the depth of my internal struggle tells me I’m fucked. It is my sworn duty to complete this mission, to keep things strictly business, yet the growing connection I feel for Rayne threatens to undermine my resolve. As much as I long to dive deep into my inner fortress, I must set aside my own conflicting emotions. Lives hang in the balance—Rayne's and her sister's.
As my fingers graze Rayne's legs, I’m surprised by the underlying strength of her toned muscles. Her dedication to taking care of herself is evident in their sculpted and defined form. With gentle pressure, I guide her legs to extend then start a full-body assessment, silently noting the possibility of a cracked rib and a myriad of both fresh and old bruises marring her skin. The scars bear witness to the vile scum who preyed upon her vulnerability. I struggle to maintain composure, a tightness gripping my face as I witness the physical remnants of her abuse.
"We really should get you x-rayed. Any blood in your urine?"
"I'm not sure that's any of your goddamned business." Hostile much, Rayne.
Meeting her gaze with unwavering determination, I draw upon my rusty medical skills. "Rayne, I'm a doctor. Let me help."
The venom in her eyes gradually fades, replaced by a cautious relaxation that allows me to continue my examination. There are no broken bones, but countless lumps, bumps, and scars mar her skin. Channeling the healing touch bestowed upon me by the gods, I allow a small amount of celestial energy to flow through my hands, accelerating the natural healing process. It should ease her distress without alerting her to my otherworldly gifts. Gently, I readjust her shirt and settle back on the couch, observing as the pain dissipates from her expression.
The moment our hands touch, it's like a jolt of electricity zaps through me. She pulls back quickly, clearly thrown off. At the same time, something else washes over me—an urgent need to protect her and not because I’ve been ordered to. Too much is happening too fast for me to process. Who could inflict this kind of pain on someone like her? Why do I care so much? I find myself fighting a surge of desire, something I've got no business feeling for a myriad of reasons. I reach out to check her pulse at her neck, feeling the undeniable warmth flood me. No, I can't afford to go down that road. I pull back.
"How are you feeling now?" My voice is steady, even though standing this close to her, feeling her heat, is like standing next to a space heater.
Her scent fills the air—a rare orchid's sweet and musky aroma, mingled with the freshness of earth—all instantly recognizable.
"Better," she says. Her eyes, a mix of brown with black flecks, are hard to read, like she's wrestling with something big. She's a fighter, no doubt, but there's this vulnerability that's just as evident and handcuffs me to her.
"How did you do that?" She looks at me, her eyes searching.
"Do what?" I keep my voice flat, playing it cool while I try to get a handle on what I’m feeling.
Her expression changes, tightening. "You know what I mean. I felt different after you touched me." Her voice has a challenging tone, like she's daring me to lie.
I step away, buying some time while I roll a joint from my stash. I can feel her eyes on me, watching, sizing me up maybe.
"If you want something, just ask," I finally say, fighting back a sudden surge of anger I didn't see coming.
"I'd be a lot better with more of whatever you just did," she snaps back. But there's something else there, beneath her words—a layer I can't quite identify but want to understand.
I can't help but feel curious, despite the emotional guardrails I've put up. "Why did Viper beat you so badly?" I change course, pushing the victim envelope more than I should. Fighting the growing attraction.
In my mind, the warning lights flicker on. Love's a raw deal, always has been. It promises heaven and delivers hell. She might be an mystery, but no one will make me gamble with those odds again. My scars, some you can see, some you can't, stand as cautionary tales.
"As I said. . . ." Her words trail off on a sigh as she exhales smoke into the night air.
I stand my ground, all too aware of the pull between us. But I won't go down that rabbit hole, not now, not ever. I keep my eyes on her, a mix of caution and captivation filling my thoughts.
She finally relents, exhaling another puff of smoke as if banishing a demon. "Look, I told him I won't kneel. He tried to make me, failed, and now he's making me an example. That's it."
I lean in slightly, feeling a spark of adrenaline as she talks. "But what's his endgame? What makes you so special to him? You can’t be the first victim to defy him." The unsaid tension is heavy, thickening the air between us.
"I did it in front of his thugs. More than once.” Shame and pride blend with resolve and hidden dread before her voice goes flat. "I'll never belong to anyone. This time, if I don't bend, he'll kill me. Simple as that." Her words hang in the space between us, a whispered ultimatum that neither of us can ignore.
“When did your stepfather first rape you?" My hands fist into balls as I ask the painful question; the silent room a stark contrast to my thundering heart.
She doesn't answer right away, but when she finally speaks up there is an edge of anger to her voice. "Don't call him that. He lost the right to be my father when he raped me at fourteen."
Empathy surges within me, an unwanted guest breaching the gates I've meticulously fortified over the years. I see her, standing resilient despite the weight of her past, a quality I find myself unwillingly admiring. I bury this fleeting emotion deep inside, a reminder of the emotional exile I've chosen. No one can map the territory of my heart—it's a place too perilous, scarred by traumas and fears I dare not confront.
A strange sensation coils around my heart, as if daring me to acknowledge it. It exhilarates and terrifies me in equal measure.
"Did he . . . did he live?" I'm startled by my own question, unscripted and revealing. She fixes her gaze on me, pondering, perhaps searching for an answer in my own eyes. Then, she laughs—a real laugh that resonates in the hidden alcoves of my hardened heart. Tears stream down her face, an unsettling mix of joy and pain that cut through me. I hand her a box of tissues, a meager offering to the hurricane of her emotions.
"You're funny." She breathes out a concoction of surprise and delight. She grips my humor as if it’s her lifeline, and that pulls another reluctant smile to my lips.
