I didn't have to go far. He was in the kitchen. "Hey, you're back earlier than I thought. I was thinking—” He stopped, eyes going wide when he saw me. “What's the matter?"
I wish I could even explain the relief I felt as the tension melted away. I walked over and wrapped my arms around him. "Bloody hell, I thought you were dead."
He frowned. "What the devil is wrong with you?"
"I… Fucking Daphne. I found her running, and I thought she'd hurt you to escape."
Reginald's face fell. "Daphne's out?"
"Well, she was. Now she’s in the boot of my car."
And then his shock was replaced by horror. "What the fuck is wrong with you, Drake?"
"What the fuck is wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with you? I thought she hurt you, mate?"
Before I could stop him, he marched out the door, straight to the car. "Open the bloody boot."
"Be careful, because she was kicking and screaming when I put her in there."
He scowled at me. "Have you learned nothing? Of course, she was kicking and screaming when you put her in there. Jesus fucking Christ."
I unlocked the car and the boot popped open. But instead of a kicking and screaming Daphne, we were met by pitiful sobs. Reginald's look of reproach was one I wouldn’t soon forget. He looked disappointed and disgusted with me. When I joined him at the boot of the car, I could see why. Daphne's eyes were red-rimmed. Her face was soaked with tears and snot, and she was curled up in a ball, unmoving except for the excessive shaking caused by her crying.
My gut knotted.
Reginald reached for her, and I batted his hands away. "No, I'll get her."
The knot in my gut only squeezed and tightened as I reached in to lift her. Fuck me. I had more than scared her. She was terrified.
She weighed barely anything as I scooped her in my arms and carried her in the house. I was more aware than ever of her limpness and her blank stare. She wasn't looking at anything. She was done fighting.
Isn't that what you wanted?
The answer shocked me.
No, it was not what I wanted. I didn't want her scared or terrified.
Reginald followed me upstairs and into my room. Nothing looked amiss. The cuffs were still where we placed them, so how the fuck had she gotten out?
When I laid her in the bed, Reginald tsked. "For fuck's sake lad, look at her hands."
I could see the rough, raw scrapes right at her thumb knuckle. Had she fucking broken her own thumbs?
I laid her down gently and smoothed her hair out of her face. "Daphne, talk to me. Did you hurt yourself? Did you break your thumbs to get out?"
She didn't answer me.
Reginald knelt down next to me. "Love, are you all right?"
Her dead gaze flicked to him and then away again, fixating at a button on my shirt.
Reginald shook his head. "You've gone too far now, mate."
"What was I supposed to do? Let her run back to London?"
"Yeah, if she managed to outsmart us, make it out of this house, and get a ride back to London, she deserves her freedom then."
I swallowed hard. "I can't let her go."
He rounded on me. “Look what you have done to this poor girl. She hasn't done anything wrong. You said it to me yourself. She has done nothing. And now look at her."
Guilt wasn't an emotion I was used to. Everything I did had a reason, had an expected outcome.
"Would you get her something to eat? I'll clean her up."
Reginald scowled at me. "I'm not sure I can trust you to do that. You tossed a terrified woman in the bloody boot?"
She was muddy. Filthy. And she was hurt. I knew when I peeled away her socks that I was going to find an injury on her right foot. She'd been desperate to get away from me.
Of course, she was. You kidnapped her. She thinks you're going to kill her. Start talking to her, or she will kill herself trying to escape you. And that'll be another death on your conscience.
Fuck.
"I'm not going to hurt her. Just get her some food, okay?"
Reginald turned to leave, but I could feel his judgment as he walked out of the room. I had fucked this up.
I knelt down near her feet. "Daphne, I need to take a look at your feet, okay?"
She didn't acknowledge that I’d spoken. I wasn't sure what was worse, her fighting and kicking the whole way or this frozen zombie routine.
I peeled off the sock. Her feet were raw. Red on the bottom. The right one had a nasty gash that needed cleaning. She didn't move, and I had to peel her leggings off her. I left her knickers where they were and resolutely looked away. She didn't say anything, didn't move at all. I hoisted her up and peeled the jumper off her as well as her Henley, but I left her in her bra.
Right. "Daphne, I'm going to sit you in the tub so I can wash you off, yeah? But I'm going to leave your undergarments on, okay?"
Again, she didn't acknowledge me.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I carried her into the loo and sat her on the edge of the counter while I started to run the bathwater. Her hair was grimy, completely filthy, and I didn't know what to do.
You know what to do. She's going to get sick if you do not clean her up.
I was grateful for one thing; her bra and knickers were black. Not see-through at all. Simple. Like a bathing suit. That's how I had to look at them.
I put some Epsom salt in the water, as well as some bubbles. And when it was filled up halfway, I eased her into the tub.
"Can I trust you to sit here and not try to drown yourself? I picked up some things for you earlier. They're in the car. Do you mind?"
Her gaze darted to mine, but she said nothing. "I'll take that as a yes."
I've never moved so quickly in my life. I took the stairs two at a time all the way down, back into the car to grab all the things, and then back upstairs. She was exactly where I’d left her. She’d made no attempt to move. She could have been out of the bedroom again if she wanted, but she hadn't moved an inch.
You actually broke her this time.
I laid out all the products Reginald had told me to get. Some conditioners, some shampoo, hydrating things for curly hair, bath gels, and stuff. Detangling brushes, those sorts of things. I'd spent all bloody last night watching a goddamn YouTube video because I knew she couldn't be trusted to do it on her own without either trying to poison herself or use it to escape in some way. Knowing her, she'd plan a way to make some beauty product into some kind of incendiary device.
The sick, whacked-out part of me found that funny.
I grabbed a washcloth and started with her feet, using the baby cleanser I’d bought for her skin to clean them.
She didn't wince. She didn't move.
"I'm sorry you hurt yourself. I didn't want you to get hurt."
The truth was a funny thing as it wound its way around my heart.
Her gaze flicked to me again, but she still said nothing as I silently cleaned her feet. The only indication that she was still with me was the way she winced and flinched away from my touch when I cleaned the gash.
"I'm sorry. We need to clean it, or you'll get sick."
She glowered at me mutinously, and I was glad to see some semblance of her former self back, even if it was just a peek. I moved through the basics of her bath quickly, even as I checked and inspected her. She had some bruises, a few cuts and abrasions, but she was mostly okay. I was all business as I washed her legs and then proceeded to start draining the water even as I added fresh water in. When she was all clean, save her hands, I used another gentle cloth to clean them. "How did you get out? You scraped up your hands pretty bad."