AMELIA’S SOBBED confession resonates throughout my entire body, tensing every muscle and making me sick to my stomach.
I don’t have to ask who he is. The blatant fear in her eyes, a look I’ve seen too many times, says everything.
I want to kill him. Run him over with my car. Pound my fists into his face. Wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze until he looks as blank, as lifeless, as she does right now sitting on my bed, bleeding and shaking. Picturing her sobbing in her car, flinching from my touch, caked in dried blood is enough to have me reaching for my car keys and bolting out the door, but I don’t. Not yet. It took me twenty minutes to coax her inside with promises of safety. I’m not leaving her. I can’t leave her.
The lack of joy in those emerald eyes, so unusually dull, hits me like a punch to the gut. That pain intensifies, reverberating through me like a gunshot, when they focus anywhere but on me. She stares at the floor, hiding her face, hiding the silent tears dripping down her cheeks.
Her cheeks. Her beautiful pale cheeks, one of them so swollen, painted in strokes of purple and yellow.
Rolling my shoulders back in an effort to release the fury holding me taut, I creep towards her slowly. When I’m close enough but not too close, I drop to my knees in front of her, cautiously inspecting her wounds. ‘Querida, I think you should go to the hospital.”
The cut on her cheek isn’t as bad as I first thought—the darkening bruise is the real problem—and while her hands and knees are cut to shit and must sting like hell, I think the dried blood is making everything look worse. Or, at least, so I try to convince myself; putting a less serious, less heartbreaking spin on her injuries is hurting my head but I need to do it. Otherwise, I’ll fucking lose it and I don’t think she can handle that right now.
Strong. Calm. For her.
What really worries me, though, is the way she keeps rubbing the back of her head and wincing, and the disconnected haze in her eyes. My gut instinct screams concussion, and I’m painfully aware that I have no idea what he did to her; she could be hiding a million bruises or broken body parts.
A freckled nose scrunches in pain as Amelia shakes her head vehemently like I knew she would.
“Please, meu amor.” Another urgent refusal, and I sigh, wondering if this is my karma for refusing to let her take me to the hospital all those weeks ago. “Okay, “I relent, my hands itching with the urge to touch her but I deny them. “No hospital tonight.”
In the morning, though, I’m not posing it as an option.
Making a mental note to set alarms so I can check her head throughout the night, I gesture at the scrapes littering her body. “We need to clean these.”
No reply; she just stares blankly at the floor. A sigh scrapes my throat as I slowly stand, intending on digging out some clothes for her before running downstairs to grab that goddamn first aid kit that’s gotten too much use lately.
I don’t get very far. A hand latches onto my t-shirt, honest to God, I swear the sound of my heart breaking is audible as Amelia peers up at me worriedly, eyes lined with red and glossy with unshed tears. Quietly, in a voice so hoarse it must be sore, she begs, “Please, don’t go.”
I wish I could say my smile is reassuring but I know it’s not; a grimace is a more accurate description. Keeping my grip gentle despite how badly I want to cling, I transfer her hand to mine. “I’ll be right back.”
A long minute passes before Amelia reluctantly releases me. When she does, I make quick work of getting her something to change into. Leaving her with a soft order to shower, I bolt downstairs at the speed of damn light and gather what I need.
I’m so quick, the shower is still on when I shuffle back into my bedroom, and I pace outside the ensuite door, rage and worry warring for dominance in my head, as I wait for the shower to shut off. While I have a chance, I shoot off a couple of texts, the same short messages for all three recipients—Amelia’s worried roommates who will probably freak if she doesn’t come home and the brother who will definitely freak if he wanders in here in the morning and finds her tucked in bed with me.
Me: Amelia’s at the house, had a run-in with Dylan. I’ve got her.
By the time I toss my phone on my desk, the rush of running water has stopped. I give it another few hellish minutes before gently knocking, rasping her name.
The door swings open and there she is, ruined work clothes discarded, hair damp and scraped back from a freshly cleaned face. I was right about the cut; definitely no need for stitches, thank fuck. Her palms, too, the blood was definitely making them look worse. God, but her legs though. The skin of her knees is torn to shreds, and when she crosses the room to clamber onto my bed, I notice she’s limping a little, favoring her left leg—I mentally add that to the list of reasons why she needs to see a damn doctor.
Cautiously, I creep toward her, crouching at the foot of the bed with the first aid kit beside me, excruciatingly aware when she flinches or tenses at my every movement, loathing how numbly she watches me dig through the first aid kit.
I find some solace in Amelia closing the distance between us of her own volition, however slowly and skittishly she may do it. Scooching until her legs hang over the side of the bed, she rests her hands on her thighs, fingers drumming an erratic rhythm.
“Can I?” I question softly, holding up a cotton ball soaked in antiseptic solution. Again, her small nod is a minor consolation. As tenderly as I possibly can, I get to work making sure her cuts are clean, unnerved by how soundless and still Amelia remains the whole time.
I can’t help but remember when she did this for me. How there was underlying solemnity in the room but it was also rife with electric tension, so much raw energy floating between us, a promise of what was to come.
Now, it’s all dull. Dimmed. It’s fucking sad, that’s the only word for it, and I’d give anything to make it better.
“He showed up after work.”
My movements still as a tiny voice pierces the silence. Not wanting to scare her back into that horrible, unresponsive shell, I work to keep my face impassive, to not shout no matter how much the mention of him makes me want to roar and yell and tear some shit up. “What happened?”
Not until I’m finished cleaning her up does she answer.
Amelia crumples, physically and emotionally, as she recounts what happened through heaved breathes and heart wrenching sobs. Everything he said to her, every hand he lay on her, everything. By the time she finishes, we’re both trembling—her with fear, me with pure, unadulterated rage.
Hands balled into fists, I stand slowly, shaking with the need to flatten that fucking monster. Blazing hot fury clouds my senses and I have to work hard to stay still, to not fly out the door because if I do, I really, really think I’m going to kill him.
One glance at Amelia sucks the rage right out of me.
She’s shaking like a leaf, a bruised, trampled leaf, and more than anything, I want to comfort her. I want to make it better, even a little bit. Breathing hard, I sit beside her, leaving a too large gap between us and mentally chatting a continuous reminder that I have to let her come to me.
I almost burst into fucking tears when she does.
My arms wrap around her without hesitation when she crawls onto my lap and buries her face in my neck, her hot tears scorching my skin. “Please don’t do anything reckless,” she whimpers. “He’s not worth it.”
No, he isn’t. But she is.
Giving her all the time in the world to pull away, I gingerly cup her uninjured cheek, an honest to God fucking whine of relief ripping from my throat when she not only lets me, but leans into me. “Look at what he did you to.” The anguished whisper hurts my throat.
Amelia presses closer to me. “I’m so tired, Nick.”
Somehow, I know it’s not physical fatigue she’s talking about.
It’s him.
And if something doesn’t change, it’s always going to be him.
A slamming door jolts me to drowsy consciousness.
Instinctively, my gaze drops, and I exhale the anxious breath caught in my throat when I find Amelia sleeping soundly, still wrapped around me. Coaxed by exhaustion, she drifted off easily last night. I wasn’t so lucky—troubled thoughts kept me up, and by the time my eyes drooped against my will, faint light was spilling into the room and birds were chirping.
That can’t have been more than a couple of hours ago yet here I am, wide awake, carefully disentangling myself from Amelia and hurrying out of my room, intent on intercepting the owner of the muffled shouts sounding throughout the house before they wake her up too.
As I’m closing the door behind me, Cass appears at the top of the stars, face twisted in wild panic and about to bellow again.
I interrupt before he can, firm and quiet and a little fucking pissed, “She’s sleeping.”
Glancing from me to the door I’m guarding and back again, Cass’ mouth opens and closes as he decides which question to ask first. Eventually, he settles on the simplest, “What happened?”
“A lot,” I reply, shoving my hands in my pockets. “I think she should tell you herself.”
My vagueness annoys him, I can tell, but he swallows it down. “How bad was it?”
A flashback of her last night, terrified and bleeding, makes me flinch. “Bad.”
Cass swears and scrubs his hand across his jaw in frustration. It’s obvious that he’s desperate to see her, shifting on his feet and staring longingly over my shoulder, looking like he might bodycheck me out of the way any moment. Stepping in his line of sight, I shake my head firmly. “Let her sleep.” The brisk command has him narrowing his eyes, adopting the same look Amelia does when she’s gearing up for an argument. Folding my arms over my chest, I return his determined stare, not moving a damn inch. “She had a long night, Cass. Let her sleep.”
He’s not happy about it, his harsh gaze confirms that, but he listens. After scrutinizing me for a long moment—in which I can almost see the cogs turning in his head as he tries to piece together something I really hope he doesn’t figure out on his own—before he grumbles his reluctant agreement. When he stomps back downstairs, I follow.
“Is she okay?” Ben and Jackson stand when we enter the living room, both looking tired and stressed. Ben looks particularly wrecked—eyes red-rimmed and puffy, hair sticking up all over the place like he’s been raking his hands through it for hours. I’m in no place to judge though; if I looked in a mirror right now, I’m pretty sure an equally fucked appearance would stare back at me.
“She’s asleep,” Cass states flatly, shooting a subtle glare my way. I resist the urge to roll my eyes at his pissy attitude. He can be snarky with me all he wants, I don’t give a shit. Cass’ feelings are the least of my fucking worries right now.
Nonetheless, when he storms in the kitchen, I go after him, sighing when he avoids looking at me, choosing to scowl at the counter instead. “Look, man, I’m sorry.” He scoffs at my clearly insincere apology. A burst of annoyance flares and I snap, “Stop being a fucking child and look at me.”
A flicker of surprise crosses his face as he turns to me before his scowl returns, twice as furious, steam practically coming out of his ears. “Excuse-‘
“You didn’t see her, Cass,” I interrupt, fighting down the urge to yell. “You didn’t see the blood or the tears or the fucking terrified look on her face. I did. So instead of throwing a tantrum, listen to me when I say give her fucking space.”
Cass’ face drops. The hard lines etched across his forehead smooth out as his expression morphs from one of anger to guilt. “Fuck,” he exhales heavily, “You’re right. I’m sorry.” Lifting a hand, he sets it on my shoulder. “Thank you. For being there. Seems like you’re always there when she needs someone.”
More like I’m always there after to clean up the mess, always a minute too late. “Don’t thank me. She’s my best friend, Cass.”
Cass jerks slightly, blinking rapidly before he attempts a weak chuckle. “Shit. Knocked out of first place by my own sister, huh?”
“What do you guys call it again?” I cast my mind back to being at the Morgans’ place when Cass and James were joking about everything else becoming insignificant to their mother as soon as Amelia walked into the room. “The Tiny Effect?”
“That’s the one.” Cass smiles but it’s half-hearted, something else clearly weighing on his mind. “Nick?”
“Yeah?”
For too long, Cass simply stares at me. “I don’t get why she came here.”
Fuck.
It’s not a question yet it is.
She could’ve gone home to the girls like she did last time. Could’ve gone back to Greenies. Could’ve gone to the damn hospital like she should’ve done, which she’s going to do even if I have to drag her there. She knew Cass wasn’t here, she knew I was the only one here, yet here she came.
And I think Cass wants to know why as much as he doesn’t.
I don’t know if it’s luck or good karma or what but I’m saved from answering when a furious, shrill voice suddenly makes us both wince.
“I swear to fucking god I’m going to castrate him.” Luna’s shout booms around the kitchen a good ten seconds before she blows through the doorway, a murderous glare twisting her face that makes both Cass and I take a hefty step backward.
“Have you killed him yet?” she demands in a completely serious tone, hands planted firmly on her hips. When I shake my head, she growls like a wild animal, eyes flaring dangerously, and I’m worried I might be the next target of that terrifying fury. “Well, fuck, are we going or what? I’m going to stick my foot so far up his ass, he’ll taste Nike for a week.”
“Sweetheart,” Jackson appears out of nowhere, smoothing his hands over his girl’s shoulders, “calm down.” Fuck, even I flinch when Luna shifts her death glare on him but Jackson doesn’t miss a beat. Whispering what I’m assuming are calming words in her ear, he steers her back into the living room, gently shushing her grumbled threats all the way. What a match.
Our conversation seemingly forgotten—for now, at least—Cass follows them out, offering Kate a weak smile as she slips quietly into the room, a stark contrast to Luna. Where Luna is a ball of fiery rage, Kate is a sea of barely contained calmness, the only clues to her distress being the heavy, tired look in her dark eyes and the deep furrow of her brow. “Is she okay?” she asks the question of the day, a question that has no simple answer.
When I shrug, she takes a step closer, hands twisted together in a nervous knot. “Are you okay?”
Finally. Something I can answer. “No.”
One word is all it takes for her to close the distance between us and pull me into a cautious hug. It’s a little awkward for a moment, both our hands hovering without touching each other, until Kate sniffles quietly and I crush her to my chest. The two of us stand there for a long moment, ignoring the whisper-yelled promises of murder coming from the living room, shedding silent tears for our girl sleeping above us.
