Bruises on her face, neck, and wrist.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper, my voice barely steady.
I move closer, my hand hovering near her cheek withouttouching until she nods. When I do, she flinches, so softly I almost miss it, and my chest cracks open.
“Layla, baby…” I swallow hard, tears stinging the backs of my eyes. “Who did this to you?”
She’s trembling. Her voice is quiet and fractured. “ I-I’m sorry, Reed. I’ve been driving for days. I?—”
“Don’t apologize,” I say quickly. “You never have to apologize to me. Just tell me who did this.”
Her lips part, trembling. “B-Brian.”
I close my eyes, my jaw tightening.
A thousand violent thoughts race through my mind, but none of them matter right now. She’s standing here, trembling, and she needs me to stay calm.
“Okay,” I murmur. “You’re safe now, sunshine. You hear me? You’re safe.”
She nods, tears silently streaming down her face.
I reach for her hand. It’s cold, small in mine. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Her body moves on instinct, trusting me as she always has. I guide her down the short hall to the bedroom and my en-suite bathroom, the old floorboards creaking beneath our feet.
I flip the light switch on, its bulbs humming softly. Steam fogs the mirror as I turn on the shower, testing it until it’s just warm enough.
She’s still shaking, sitting on the edge of the counter, with dazed, distant eyes.
“Layla,” I whisper, kneeling before her. “Look at me.”
Her eyes find mine, and my chest aches all over again.
“I’m gonna help you, alright? You’re not alone anymore.”
She nods, and when I offer my hand, she takes it. I help her stand, guiding her gently toward the shower.
“Can I stay?” I ask.
She nods again, barely audible. “Please.”
I slowly undress her, helping her out of her clothes. The fabric falls to the floor, leaving her bare.
My eyes sweep over the semi-healed bruises and the new ones forming. I press my hand to my mouth, fighting back tears.
Keeping my clothes on, I gently guide her into the shower.
The water begins to fall on us as I grab a washcloth, wetting it, and gently scrubbing her arms. “You just breathe. Let me do the rest.”
I gently run the cloth over her face, wiping away streaks of makeup, grime, and faint traces of blood.
She winces once but doesn’t pull away.
My fingers tremble as I brush a strand of hair from her forehead, and I can’t help it; the tears blur my vision until I can barely see what I’m doing.
Her voice cuts through the sound of running water. “He said no one would believe me.”
“I do,” I whisper. “I always will, baby.”
