"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 thatapartment, 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."
