I examine her more closely. There are no visible wounds that I can see, but maybe there’s more under her clothes, not that she’s wearing much. When I pry the too-thin blanket away, she’s in shorts and a tank, as though she was dressed for sleeping. Fuck, could she have been abused?
She’s not the old woman I’d expected given the décor in the house. She’s younger than me by quite a few years, but that’s as far as my disimpassioned thoughts go. If I’m going to get questions answered, I’ve got to ensure she stays breathing.
The padlock keeping her chained was clearly beyond her, given that her nails are broken and bleeding, but is child’s play for me to release. As I get her free, I run through triage and treatment in my head.
Warm her up. That’s the first thing she needs.
Gently lifting her in my arms, I carry her up the stairs, and then up the second set that leads to the bedrooms above. I lay her on the bed in the master suite before searching for what I need. Finding an old claw-footed tub in the main bathroom, I turn on the taps, pleased when I test the temperature that hot water flows. Using my hand, I make sure it’s warm, but not scalding, and return to the bedroom.
Her clothes are soiled, but hell, I’ve seen worse. Clinically, I ease the blanket off of her, quickly stripping her out of her meagre amount of clothing. Soon she’s back in my arms, and I carry her to the tub.
Gently, I ease her down in the water, keeping one arm around her shoulders to keep her from going under. With my free hand, I start massaging her arms.
When the water cools, I run some more hot in, slowly raising the temperature. I could do with a thermal blanket, but all I’ve got is this and that will have to be enough.
If she doesn’t stir soon, I’ll need to call in the experts. Fuck, I hope it doesn’t come to that. I want my chance to talk to her.
While I’m working on raising her core temperature, with a dispassionate eye, I run my eyes over her, noting the rawness around her wrists, and the way one is lying, swollen. Broken or badly strained is my diagnosis. Her skin is dull, dehydrated. Her ribs show, but she’s been imprisoned for fuck knows how long without food.
Slowly her skin begins to lose that bluish complexion, going white, then slowly morphing into pink. Testing the water, I check it’s not too warm—by my judgement, it’s just right. Do I know what I’m doing? I should call for help.
But I never trust others to do what I can myself. I got this. Haven’t I?
Jeez, I hope that I have as I gently brush some strands of red hair off her face, wishing she’d open her eyes. What colour are they? Fuck, what does it matter? I’m here for info.
Lifting my hand and drying it, I slide my phone out of my pocket. I can’t estimate how long it’s been since I found her, but I’ll give it another half hour. If she doesn’t stir when that time has passed, I’ll dial 911. While I hate to admit it, I’ve no idea what she’s been through or for how long. Saving her might be beyond me. Fuck, even if I get her to come round, she might still need expert help. All I need is her conscious enough to answer my questions, after which I’ll gladly let the professionals take her. At least now she’s naked, I can see no other injuries, no bruising or wounds that would suggest sexual abuse. Of course, the bulk of those would be internal.
I still. Was that a murmur? Wasn’t her mouth closed? Almost without breathing myself, I stare at her chest, watching it rise and fall. Is it wishful thinking, or is the movement getting stronger?
Suddenly and so fast it makes me startle, her eyes open wide. Water sloshes as she screams and tries to cover herself.
Green, I notice with strange satisfaction—the colour of her eyes is a vivid green.
“Wh-who?” “Wh-who are you?” she tries again. Her whole body is violently trembling. It could be shivers that she’s still cold, but more likely from terror. Her voice is croaky, her throat dry and probably misused from futile screaming.
“Hush,” I say fast, trying to find words to calm her. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m just warming you up. You were so fuckin’ cold, I couldn’t think of anything else.” Except calling for paramedics. Yeah, maybe I should have done that.
Her pain-filled eyes flutter wildly, one of her hands covers her breasts, and the other her mound. I’m tempted to roll my eyes. No matter that she’s half dead, her modesty is more important than her health. Just like a fucking woman. Would a man first think of covering his dick? I think not. Though if he was as cold as her, he wouldn’t have much worth hiding.
As her terrified eyes stare at my face, I try to gentle my voice, or at least, speak less gruffly. “Let’s get you out of here.” When I reach for her, she feebly tries to push me away, but she’s too weak to make anything more than a token effort.
Ignoring that I’m getting wet, I reach my arms around her, pulling her slender form into my arms. Balancing her against my shoulder, I grab hold of a towel, wrapping it around her.
“I…” she croaks.
“Hey, stop. I’m trying to look after you. You’re cold and dehydrated.” And fuck knows what else. “Let’s get you settled on your bed, then I’ll go and get you some water, okay? I needed to get you warm first.”
She starts to wriggle, and her lower half, slippery with water, escapes my hold. She tries to take her weight, but her legs, unused for fuck knows how long don’t hold her. Again, I sweep her up into my arms, getting a firmer grip this time, and take her into the bedroom. There, I sweep her dirty clothing and soiled blanket off the comforter and lay her down. I rub her limbs to get her dry and cover her up.
I feel her sigh of relief now her body’s no longer revealed to me.
“Stay here,” I instruct, though I doubt she can move far. “I’ll be back with some water.”
Knowing how adrenaline and shock can quickly overcome a person, I waste no time. Taking the stairs fast and entering the kitchen, I grab a bottle of water, then, opening cupboards, find a can of soup which I open. Tracking down a bowl, I heat it in the microwave and grab a spoon.
I’m back with her within minutes.
“Let’s sit you up.” I move in close, perching on the bed so I can get my arm around her. Holding the water to her lips, I caution her to take it slow. “Don’t drink too much, else you’ll just throw up. Little and often, okay? You think you can manage some soup, sweetheart?”
She’s compliant, half still out of it I believe, but it suits my purpose as I hold the spoon to her lips. She slurps some of the soup, some of it dribbling out of the side of her mouth, but I ignore that, more thankful when she gestures for more. Before she’s finished, I pull it away.
“Let’s see how that stays down first, okay?”
There’s a little frown on her face, but I know the dangers of eating and drinking too fast. The mind wants more than the body can take.
I note she’s got more colour in her face now. It brings out her freckles. “More water?” Her nod is a little more energetic. “Just a little. Small sips.” When she appears to be sensible about it, I release my hold on the bottle. Nodding at her left wrist that she has avoided using, I ask, “Can I have a look at that?”
A shy up and down of her head grants me permission. She seems to have got the message I’m here to help. Gently, I take her arm, carefully supporting it. “Can you move your fingers?”