She tries, winces, but I’m pleased to note there’s slight movement. “I don’t think it’s broken, but you’ve obviously wrenched it. Have you got a first aid kit? I can bandage it to support it.”
Her eyes come to my face. “Who, who are you? Are you a friend of Weston’s?” I clench my jaw seeing fear making her tense as she mentions the name.
“Weston?” The name triggers loud bells in my memory. “Weston Hughes?” I can join the dots as well as the next man. “Tiny? Who is he to you?” Shit. She’s involved in this right up to her neck.
My compassion starts to recede, until I remember the condition I found her in. And that anguish when she mentioned his name… Don’t jump to conclusions.
“Who is he to you?” she counters. She’s scared, but there’s bravery in her challenge.
I wonder how to answer. Is he her boyfriend? I might not know anything about her, but she doesn’t look the type who’d go for a man like him. He was responsible for chopping off Swift’s finger with no more thought than swatting a fly. Everything I know about him suggests he’s evil. She, I somehow think, is not. Trying to remain open minded—any woman can walk on the wild side, I suppose—I settle for, “I asked first.”
There’s only a moment’s hesitation before she replies haughtily, “My cousin.” She grimaces slightly. “Is it a joke that you call him Tiny?”
It is, he was a big fucker, the answer so obvious I don’t provide it.
I suppose we can’t choose our family, and I can’t assign guilt just because they share blood. If he was the fucker who left her to die, their link didn’t mean much to him. That’s what I’ve got to ascertain now. While I prefer not asking leading questions, this time I’m direct. “He got anything to do with leaving you like this?”
She glances away. As gentle as I can be, I touch her chin, and move her face back. “Catherine?”
Again, her eyes widen. “How do you know my name?” An answer occurs to her and defeat fills her face. “Weston, of course. I presume he sent you. I suppose I should be glad he didn’t forget about me.”
Well, it wasn’t a yes/no answer like it could have been. This time I’m the one with information. The fucker is dead, and whether he had any intention of returning to free her, the point is moot. Right now, I doubt it would do any good to explain I’m only here by happy circumstance. If I hadn’t turned up, she’d have died chained like an animal. She’ll realise that soon enough and will likely have nightmares about dying alone with only rats for company for a very long time.
“Catherine—” I start.
“Cat,” she corrects. “No one ever uses my full name, except for him.” There’s a wealth of disgust in the way she refers to who I assume is her cousin.
“Cat,” I repeat, happy to give in on the small things, while thinking with her striking green eyes how well the name suits her. “You want to tell me how you came to be chained in your fuckin’ cellar?”
She closes her eyes, wincing again as though it hurts to remember. Suddenly her eyes come open again. “Caspar!” It’s as though the name has just occurred to her. As I’m wondering how a fucking ghost fits in, she repeats it again, this time, urgently, “Caspar? Where is he? He should be here. God, he’s had no food or water. How long has it been? Don’t tell me Weston let him out, he could be anywhere by now.”
I realise immediately she’s talking about her fucking dog, the one which bled out over her kitchen floor, presumably, so frantic barking didn’t alert anyone that anything was amiss. If Weston wasn’t already six feet under, I’d kill him for that alone. I can’t abide abuse to animals, nor am looking forward to being the one to tell her.
I’m an expert at hiding my thoughts, but not this time it would seem. Cat covers her mouth with her hand, her eyes start to water.
“Tell me. Tell me now,” she begs, then adds more strongly, “Where’s Caspar?”
I can’t meet her eyes and look away.
Her good hand comes out, grasping my chin with a strength I didn’t think in her state she’d possess. “Caspar?”
What can I do, but simply say, “I’m sorry.”
“He starved?” Her voice is choked.
I can’t lie. “I presume Weston killed him. I’m fuckin’ sorry, Cat.”
I barely get out of the way in time, as she vomits over the sheets, an agonised wail comes out of her mouth. “No, that’s not true.”
“Hey.” I wipe her mouth with the edge of the sheet. “Hey.” I’m fucking useless at this. Another man would be able to comfort her, but I can’t find the words. I’m consumed by the need for revenge, but that’s already been dealt. If I could, I’d go back, dig Weston up and kill him all over again, this time with my own bare hands.
I stand, turning my back on her. I don’t know the story, but I can fill in the gaps between what she’s said and what she hasn’t. Weston left her here to suffer. Even if he hadn’t been prevented, was he ever going to come back? Would he have left her to a lingering death? A glance back reminds me how much she’s been through. The wounds on her wrists showing how much she fought to get free, but she hadn’t a chance. And killing her dog? Fuck, just an animal, but he mattered.
Always a practical man, I let her weep for a moment, hating the way her weakened body is subjected to shakes and shudders. When I’ve given her enough time, I turn around, scooping the comforter along with her, and pick her up gently and place her in the chair by the wall.
“Clean sheets?” I ask when her sobs become less regular.
Incapable of speaking, she inclines her head. Interpreting she means the closet, I go over and pull a fresh set of bedding out, and get on to remaking her bed for her.
“I should… hic… be doing that… hic.”
“Cat, you can barely stand.” Otherwise ignoring her, I go back to my task, cleaning up a spill of vomit she’d gotten on the floor. When I’ve finished, she’s in my arms once again as it’s the easiest way to move her. Business like, I notice she’s far too thin for my liking. I like a woman with meat on her bones. I sense it’s caused by more than however long she spent in the cellar. Does she starve herself to look fashionable? Is, or has she been ill?
Strangely, I find myself wanting to find answers.
I eye her, noting her pallor which looks improved now, but she could still do with some more colour. I might have found her unconscious, but I doubt she’s had a proper sleep without worry since Weston left. Rats would keep the strongest of us awake.
“You rest up,” I tell her, collecting the half-empty soup bowl. “Try to get some sleep. I’ll be up later to see what you want to eat. You need to get your strength back up.”
“Where are you going?”
“To do your laundry, for a start.” I bundle the dirty bedding together. Seeing her looking nervous, I attempt a smile. “I’m not going to hurt you, or rob you, Cat. You can trust me on that.”
There’s a small nod. If I was here with an ulterior motive, I needn’t have woken her up.
“Wait. Who are you, and why are you in my house? You never said what your relationship is to Weston.”