I nod, putting my arm around her and pulling her close. “I took care of her. She has some minor bruises and was understandably shaken up, but she’s fine otherwise.” I pause.
I can’t lie to Betsy anymore than I can lie to Ash. “Mostly.”
Betsy’s spine stiffens, and she turns to me, eyes blazing. “What do you mean, ‘mostly’?”
I take a deep breath. “I think… I think the trauma of what was happening, what could have happened… it…” I don’t even know how to finish that sentence. I know the basics of what was done to Ash, to protect her from herself, but not the finer details. Betsy would, I know. So, I try to continue. “It seemed like it caused cracks in the cage. She was seeing, remembering snippets — just bits and pieces — of what came before.”
Betsy seems to be at a loss for words. In all the time I’ve known her, that’s a first. That alone makes me hesitant to continue, as a cold coil of fear wraps around my spine.
“Is that normal?” I press. “Could a new traumatic experience… make her remember?”
Betsy seems to consider this, although she appears terrified. After a long moment, she says, “Yes. It’s possible. It could destroy her, but it’s possible. How much did she remember?”
“Not enough to remember you or me, but she definitely re-lived some of the worst moments. A few tiny moments, from what I could gather, but not enough to break the chains.” Or her mind, I think, but don’t voice. Both of us know what the stakes are.
“A trickle, rather than a flood,” Betsy whispers, almost to herself. I’m terrified I know just enough to understand what she means.
If Ash’s memories come out in a flood, it could decimate her chances for recovery and undo all the work that has been done, all the progress we have made. She’s clearly been remembering for a while, if what I know about her writing is any indication, but the incident last night increased the fissures in her mind.
Betsy seems to come back to herself. “And him? Did you also take care of him?”
“Not as much as either of us would like, I’m afraid. Twisted his balls blue, though, so that should count for something.”
I’m hoping Betsy will at least crack a smile, but she doesn’t. Focusing on Brett has moved her mood to a cold kind of rage and, if there’s anything I know about Fae females, Brett is beyond fucked.
I find my lips spreading in a feral smile when Betsy sweetly, venomously whispers, “You leave him to me.”
Half an hour later, I’ve already spoken to Annemarie, who is on her way to the apartment. I need to believe that last night I was able to help more than hurt, but I know enough about females to know that there are some things she may be much more comfortable discussing with Anne than she would with me, or even with Betsy. Which means that I’m going to have to handle the shop as Betsy just sailed out with some dire warning that she’ll be back later.
Calida checked in and is on her way here to keep me company (mostly so I can keep her out of trouble) and everything is ready for opening. I’m full of nervous energy and don’t really know what to do with myself while the women are all off doing whatever it is they’re doing. I mean, I know what Annemarie and Ash are doing, most likely, but Betsy going off on her own with revenge on her mind, and no supervision is enough to make my own balls shrivel up.
Why am I even here? Not here in the wider sense of things, but here in this bookshop? Betsy certainly doesn’t need the money and, frankly, she obviously has other things on her mind as she left with barely a backwardglance. Calida could use some time out in the air and, since I don’t dare go back to the apartment, that might be just the way to spend today.
I’ll wait for her and give Ash and Anne the time they need.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Aknock sounds on the door as I’m trying to pull the rest of my thoughts together. I say knock like it was some sweet, petite tap. No, whoever is out there banged on the door like they’re trying to pummel it into firewood or serve a warrant. I hastily approach, “Who is it?” like the second victim in a horror movie.
“Anne!” a voice strained voice replies.
I sigh with a relief I don’t fully want to acknowledge and open the door. Anne immediatelyrushes in, grabbing my arms and studying my face. The fast shot of pain where her hands squeeze my shoulders has me taking a quick, sharp breath. Anne quickly drops her hands, muttering, “Shit.”
“What…” I manage to begin, but before I can finish the thought, she has her arms wrapped gently around me.
My throat is suddenly tight, burning with tears. I feel them stinging my eyes. I give up, burying my face in her neck and let myself be held.
Anne sways slightly, side to side, like a woman comforting a fussy baby.
After what feels like forever, she gently draws back and studies my face. Suddenly self-conscious, I look down and try to avoid meeting her gaze.
“I am going to castrate that stupid, misogynistic motherfucker with the dullest knife I can find. And then I’m going to take a melon baller to his eyes.”
That’s enough to make me look up, as goosebumps rise on my arms. If she had yelled, even screamed, it would have been easy to ignore the venom in her words. As it was, she spoke softly, carefully. Like she was pledging an oath.
“You don’t have any dull knives,” I helpfully point out, hoping desperately that it will diffuse this emotion-charged moment. I’m kinda fucking tired of emotions.
Anne narrows her eyes at me. “Who says I can’t borrow one from someone else?”
