"I'm going to try something else now," I said, keeping my voice low and steady. "I'll place my hand on your shoulder, over the blanket. If anything makes you uncomfortable, just say stop. Okay?"
"Mmm-hmm," she murmured, eyes still closed.
I moved my hand to her shoulder, applying gentle pressure through the layers of blanket and my borrowed t-shirt. She tensed momentarily, then relaxed as I began making small, rhythmic circles with my palm.
"Focus on my touch," I reminded her. "Nothing else exists right now. Just this moment. You're safe here."
Her breathing deepened further, her chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. I continued the gentle pressure, watching as the worry lines on her forehead smoothed out.
"That's it," I murmured. "You're doing so well, Lottie."
I moved my hand to her other shoulder, repeating the same soothing circles. The bruise on her cheek looked stark against her pale skin, and I found myself fighting another surge of anger. I'd been doing this job long enough to recognize vulnerability when I saw it, and Lottie was practically a beacon for predators. Everything about her—her size, her sweetness, even the way she clutched that teddy bear—screamed that she needed protection.
Protection I'd failed to provide tonight.
"You're thinking too hard," she whispered, her eyes still closed. "I can feel it in your touch."
I smiled despite myself. "Sorry about that."
"What are you thinking about?" Her voice was drowsy, but curious.
I continued the gentle circles on her shoulder, considering how much to share. "I'm thinking that I should have been there sooner."
Her eyes fluttered open, surprisingly clear despite her fatigue. "You saved me, Walker. You were there when it mattered."
Something about her simple faith in me made my chest tighten. I moved my hand to her hair, carefully avoiding the bump on her head. "Let's focus on getting you to sleep," I said, my voice rougher than I intended.
I began to stroke her hair, using long, rhythmic movements from her crown to where her blonde curls spread across the pillow. It was an intimate gesture, perhaps too intimate for two people who barely knew each other, but she leaned into it with a small sigh that told me she needed this.
"This reminds me of something," she murmured, her eyelids growing heavy again.
"What's that?" I kept my voice soft, matching her quiet tone.
"When I was little, before my parents died, my mom used to stroke my hair like this until I fell asleep." Her words were becoming slurred with approaching sleep. "I'd forgotten how nice it feels."
The casual mention of her parents' death hit me harder than it should have. I'd suspected she'd experienced loss, but hearing it confirmed made her vulnerability all the more stark. How many other losses had shaped her life? How many times had she been let down by the people who should have protected her?
"It's okay to sleep now," I whispered, continuing the gentle strokes. "I'll be right here. Nothing bad will happen while I'm watching over you."
Her breathing deepened, each exhale a little longer than the last. I watched as her features softened, tension melting away as sleep finally claimed her. Even then, I didn't stop the rhythmicstrokes of her hair, knowing that touch would follow her into her dreams, a shield against the nightmares that might come.
I found myself studying her face in the dim light. She couldn't be more than twenty-two or twenty-three, though something about her made her seem both younger and older at the same time. The innocence in her expression, even bruised and battered, spoke of a spirit that hadn't been completely crushed by whatever hardships she'd faced.
Her hand still clutched Mr. Snuggles, fingers curled protectively around one worn paw. The sight of it made something shift inside me, a protective instinct I hadn't felt in a long time.
She was too vulnerable for this world. Too trusting, too sweet, too eager to believe in the good in people. She needed someone to look out for her, to teach her how to protect herself without losing that beautiful light inside her.
I carefully removed my hand from her hair, making sure not to disturb her sleep. She mumbled something incoherent, then settled deeper into the pillow. I returned to the chair, prepared to keep my silent vigil through the night.
Every few hours, I gently woke her as the doc had instructed, asking simple questions to check her mental state. Each time, she responded with sleepy confusion before drifting back under, Mr. Snuggles clutched to her chest.
Around dawn, I found myself studying her sleeping form, trying to make sense of the instinct that had surged through me when I'd seen those men surrounding her. I'd neutralized threats before—it was part of the job—but this had felt different. More personal.
Maybe it was because she reminded me of the vulnerable people I'd sworn to protect after what happened to Gran. Or maybe it was the way she looked at me with those big blue eyes,like I was some kind of hero instead of a man with more shadows than light inside him.
Either way, I knew one thing for certain: Lottie couldn't go back to that apartment near Nebraska Avenue. Not alone. Not when she practically had a target painted on her back for every predator in a ten-mile radius.
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.
