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She doesn’t release me, so I gently pry her fingers away. Bloodied skin glistens under her fingernails, an evidence of her fight. She did fight. That’s why she was beaten.
A wave of pride invades me at her bravery. A feeling I only had for Uncle Alexander and myself thus far.
I take a quick trip to the bathroom, fetch my medical kit, some warm water, and lots of towels.
Mae’s in the position where I left her. She releases a breath at my sight. I place the equipment on the night stand and kneel in front of her. “I will clean your cuts, all right?”
She gives a single nod.
Mae remains motionless as I remove the jacket and the remnants of her torn nightgown, leaving her in cotton underwear. She stares at the ceiling as if there lays a wonder of some sort.
I wet a towel and clean the clotted blood on her mouth and nose. Then her neck. A bluish mark stains the pale skin of her stomach. I grit my teeth. I should have killed that arsehole slower.
“I will use some antiseptic so the wounds won’t infect. It will sting.”
Her gaze meets mine this time as she nods.
She whimpers when I apply the ointment on her broken skin. Then I bandage some of her more serious wounds. I’m halfway through when a strangled sob pierces my ear.
I pause, my gaze wanders to hers. Tears flood Mae’s cheeks. Her lips tremble, causing her teeth to chatter.
“H-he... he... w-wanted... to... ” Her voice breaks as more tears gush out, seeming to flow from the recess of her soul.
“You don’t need to talk about it.” What the hell should I do? Except for burning Hampton’s corpse to ashes, I’m out of options.
Mae sits up, and before I realise what’s going on, she wraps her arms around my waist and buries her head in my chest. The warmth of her tears seeps through my shirt.
“T-thank you for k-killing him.”
Fucking hell.
She’s the first person who ever thanked me for killing someone.
It’s...euphoric.
Chapter Sixteen
Mae
Blankness washes over me like a calm wave rinsing the sand. The wave soon turns into an enraged fury, colliding with my psyche like crashing into a rocky shore.
It isn’t enough to smother the fire inside me.
It hurts. Breathing hurts. The soft material underneath me hurts. The air on my skin hurts. The guttural sound of my sobs hurts. My chaotic mind hurts. But my chest, my chest hurts the worst. It’s breaking brick by brick.
I can scarcely register the raw, strangled cries as my own. Their sheer force constricts my throat and trembles my body. I tighten my arms around my anchor, face nuzzling further into the soft material. My tears and a cedar scent saturate my face, and I cling to them with all my might. They’re fragments of a much-needed reality.
A strong arm wraps around me. Warmth erupts in my chest. It’s not burning. No. It’s more... soothing. It allows me to breathe between my gasps.
My mind is so warped to analyse the identity of who holds me. So I cling to him with no thoughts.
I don’t know how long I sob into his chest. He sits there, one unmoving arm around my waist in a tight hold.
“Sleep, little bird.” His soft, deep voice rings in my ear. “Just sleep.”
Slowly, my gasps turn into sighs and my hiccoughs fade to the background. My lids flutter close.
As if he’s cast a spell over me, sleep whisks me away.
