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She murmured something, started to toss and turn.
When her murmuring turned into cries, I got up.
She was having a nightmare.
Reliving the horrible things done to her.
A wave of coldness washed through my body and settled into the empty cavity inside my rib cage.
He would pay.
I would make him pay.
I put my gun on the nightstand, then sat down on the bed beside her, grabbed her good arm, and gave it a good shake.
Her instinctive recoiling and whimper hit me like a blow to the solar plexus.
Poor baby.
“Wake up. You’re safe. I will not let anyone hurt you ever again.”
She shivered, then moaned, her voice hoarse as if she’d exhausted herself with crying.
I shook harder.
I needed her to wake up, couldn’t bear to witness her suffering.
She opened her eyes, unfocused.
She blinked, but was still light years away, caught in the hell she’d experienced.
“Wake up. Now.”
My commanding voice did the trick, and her eyes snapped to me.
“You were dreaming; you’re okay.”
Her lips trembled and tears made her eyes watery until a single one spilled over and made its way toward her temple.
And I was fucked.
I grabbed her torso, hauled her into my lap, pressed her head against my chest, and held her.
And then the dam broke.
I’d never witnessed such misery. Deep, heart-wrenching sobs—ripped out of her chest—shook her whole frame.
And I held her, as tightly as I could.
She didn’t even try to get away; instead, she pressed closer as if she wanted to crawl inside of me.
I stroked her hair, let the silken strands glide through my fingers.
And I gave her the time and place to let out the horror stored in her body.
Fausto would die for this, slowly, as slow and as painful as I could make his death.
I hummed, soothed her, kissed her head, and held her.
