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She needs safety.
Holding my hand out, I swallow thickly as I watch her just stare at it. A part of me doesn’t think she’ll take it. Why would she? Despite the last few days, I’ve given her no reason to trust me. To love me.
I left her when she needed me most. I let my father get into my head, I let him scare me away. I let him dictate my life—our lives. I could’ve taken her with me. We could’ve run away together.
So many things I could’ve done differently, yet I did none of them. And it all led us to this moment.
To her being bruised, and bloody, and broken. To her looking terrified to touch me.
That’s not Eve.
Eve doesn’t get scared. Eve doesn’t break.
She plows through, no matter how hard life gets. She never stays down, she always gets back up.
But right now, looking at her, at the way her red-rimmed eyes are shimmering with more tears, I don’t think she’s going to get back up. I don’t think she’s going to be able to pull herself together this time. At least, not alone.
Her smaller, colder palm slides against mine, and genuine shock fills me. I try to hide it, but I know I don’t do a good job at it. Gently, I lead her to the shower.
“It’s not too hot,” I murmur, but I don’t think she cares. She nods numbly as she steps into the tub.
I hesitate before following her in. The water drenches us, soaking through my clothes and plastering her hair down her back, but she never lets go of my hand.
“I’ll pack a bag when we get out,” I tell her softly. “I’m taking you home.” A broken sob leaves her, her eyes squeezing shut. “I’ve got you, Goldie. I’ve—” She crumples, and my arms wrap around her, holding her up. Her legs give out, but I haul her against my chest, holding her as she breaks.
It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her cry like this. She didn’t break when her father died, didn’t break when Jane died. Didn’t break when I left, didn’t break when Marcus attacked her. Didn’t break in Mammoth.
But right now, after whatever the fuck my evil father did to her, she’s breaking. She’s fucking shattering.
She slips on the slick floor of the tub, and we fall to the floor. Her legs are folded under her, and I drop to my knee, blocking most of the water from spraying in her face. It mixes with her tears as they fall, and I gather her against my chest again, feeling them soak into my skin.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I keep saying it. I can’t stop. The words just fall from my lips like a mantra, like the more I say it, the more it’ll matter.
But it doesn’t matter how sorry I am.
I failed her.
I let her down.
“Ro,” she cries, sounding lost, but I’m here, holding her tighter, wanting to squeeze the pain from her.
“Shh, baby. It’s okay.”
It’s not and part of me thinks it never will be again. But I can’t say that. I’ll never say it.
“No,” she sobs, shaking her head. “I—he—he—”
“It’s okay,” I say again. She doesn’t have to relive it. She doesn’t have to tell me the details. I know enough.
“Dirty. I’m dirty. Don’t touch—”
Frantically, she tries to pull away from me, but I don’t let her. I hold on tighter. “You’re not dirty.” She gathers my wet shirt in her shaky fists as she sobs so hard she can barely breathe. I hold her while she breaks, repeating the words rolling through my mind, my heart, again and again.
I love you.
I’m sorry.
You’re perfect.
