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“Not—home.” Her voice is so low and choked that I barely hear her at first.
“What?” I twist around, looking at her for one brief moment before I veer onto a side street. “Asha?”
“Don’t go—to my place. Anywhere…else. Don’t want—follow.” Her voice trails off again, thick and pained, and I nod, even though I’m not sure she can see it.
“I won’t take you back there.” It occurs to me to wonder how she knows that I know where her apartment is—if she saw me follow her home that night. If she did, it amazes me that she didn’t tell me to fuck off immediately after that. It makes me wonder if she really does feel more for me than she let on, if she let that go.
But right now, all that matters is getting her somewhere safe.
I take her back to my apartment. “This isn’t how I wanted to take you home,” I murmur as I park the SUV in a back alley, getting her out as carefully as I can and cradling her against my chest, trying to inject some humor into a situation where it feels almost impossible.
“You’re funny,” she whispers thinly, and when she lays her head against my shoulder, it feels as if my heart is going to crack open.
I need to take care of the car—clean it out and dump it—but I need to make sure that she’s taken care of first. I carry her upstairs into my apartment, kicking the door shut behind me and double-checking the locks. Then I go straight to the bathroom, letting the jacket drop to the floor as I gently set her down and reach over to turn on the hot water.
“We’re going to get you cleaned up,” I tell her, brushing her hair out of her face. He didn’t cut up her face, thank fuck, but there’s bruising forming along her jaw, and her lips look even worse than I saw back at Matvei’s. The rest of her—
It’s all superficial—nothing that would permanently damage her or risk her life, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is the way I can trace every spot where he hit her, struck her, beating her with implements that I can’t identify—the way he clearly cut her, carving patterns into her flesh that I hope won’t scar. “I’m going to get you in the bath,” I tell her gently, careful not to touch her in any way that seems like anything other than strictly taking an inventory of her wounds. “Let me know if anything hurts too much?”
Asha nods weakly, and I lift her again, setting her into the warm water. I hear her hiss in pain as it washes over her, but she leans her head back, and I see the trail of bruises laced around her throat, where he must have choked her.
“I tried—” She swallows, her tongue swiping over her split lips before she winces. “Safeword—I think he knew—I was going to—use. Gagged me—glad I had—bracelet.”
“Try not to talk.” I touch her cheek gently, barely brushing my fingertips over her skin, trying to avoid the bruises. “You’re safe here. I won’t let anything hurt you.Especiallynot him.”
Asha nods—or I think she tries to. Her eyes stay closed, her hands limp at her sides as I clean away the blood, the water turning pink—it hits me then, how much she must trust me, to allow this. She’s been hurt, beaten nearly to unconsciousness, and she’s given herself over to my care.
My chest tightens, my heart aching with the realization. Words come to mind that I know make no sense, especially when I don’t even know the reality of who she is. I don’t know who Felicity Harlow is. I know nothing about her. But I can’t imagine she’s so much different from the woman in front of me now; all of her guards dropped, letting me care for her in a way I’d never imagined she would.
I just wish it had been for some other reason.
When Asha is cleaned up, I help her out of the bath, drying her off gently and finding a first-aid kit to take care of the worst of the wounds. Carefully, I help her walk to the bedroom, sitting her down on the edge of the bed as I dig out clean pajama pants and a t-shirt for her. Asha looks at me, her gaze bleary but a little more focused.
“Bet you didn’t think you’d be putting clothesonme when you finally got me in bed.” The words are a little slurred, but I can hear the humor in them, see the slight twitch of her wounded mouth before she winces.
“Funny,” I tell her wryly, bringing her the clothes. “Help me get this on.”
“This isn’t very—attractive—” Asha mumbles as I help her back onto the bed against the pillows, and I stare at her for a moment, utterly surprised.
The truth is, I don’t think she’s ever looked more beautiful to me. She’s gorgeous all made up, of course, in silk and lace or wrapped up in leather, but like this—
Her face is bare, her hair loose and damp, my clothes too big on her—and she looks lovely. She looks exactly like she would if I woke up every day with her, and at that moment, I can’t think of anything I could possibly want more.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” I murmur softly, reaching for a blanket to cover her up with. “Especiallylike this.”
I wait for her retort, for some comment—but I realize as I tuck the blanket around her that she’s already asleep, knocked practically unconscious by pain and exhaustion. I stand there for a long moment, looking at her, and then I turn towards the door.
I need to take care of the SUV. And then, once that’s done, I’m not leaving her side until I know she’s well.
Asha
Ihave no idea how long I sleep. When I wake up, at first, I think it might have all been some awful nightmare. I have vague memories of Finn bursting into the room, of him and Matvei fighting, of the painful flight out of the house and the sound of gunshots—of Finn carrying me upstairs, putting me in a bath, putting me to bed. It all feels like the kind of thing that would happen in a dream, disjointed and foggy, without all of the pieces fitting neatly together.
But when I open my eyes, I don’t recognize the room I’m in. Idorecognize the smell of it, the faint hint of Finn’s cologne and soap on the knitted blanket tucked around me, on the pillows I’m lying on. And when I try to sit up, the way I feel—as if I’d been beaten and then run over repeatedly—tells me that it wasn’t all a dream.
It takes me several tries to sit up. I wince when I see the dried blood on Finn’s pillow, likely from my mouth—I can feel how much it hurts when I move my lips even a little. The room itself looks like a bachelor’s—a plain wooden bedframe and grey-toned bedding, a tall dresser that doesn’t match, a couple of mystery novels on the bedside table. There’s framed art of vintage motorcycles on the walls, and I look at them curiously, desperate for anything to take my mind off of what happened and the questions I have about it.
Finn saved me. Finn brought me home. Finn—
