Her palms were abraded and bruised and scratched. She winced when I cleaned those, but I was most worried about the abrasions on her wrist, her knuckles, and her thumb. “Does this hurt?”
She didn’t answer. Just stared past me.
I preferred her fighting. This hollowed out version of her sliced me too deep.
Daphne
Later that night, I lay in bed, unable to fall asleep. Drake had cleaned me up as best he could and Reginald had tried to feed me.
They’d left my hair for tomorrow since I was so out of it.
The darkness of the room weighed on me like a heavy, suffocating blanket. My mind raced, replaying the events of my life in an endless loop. Eventually, I managed to calm down enough to drift off into an uneasy sleep, but it was far from peaceful. Nightmares haunted me throughout the night, leaving me exhausted and emotionally drained come morning light.
I was six again. I flashed back to my mother's cruel laughter as she slammed the door shut, trapping me in the closet. Tears of terror streamed down my face as the familiar feelings surged through my veins like electricity, refusing to be ignored and making it nearly impossible to relax.
The memories of that night came flooding back. I could feel the cold fear in my chest, a tightness that refused to be released. Tears streamed down my face as I remembered how helpless I had felt when my mother had slammed the door shut, trapping me in the closet.
I shivered, my body trembling with terror and anger. I curled up into a ball, trying to make myself as small as possible so I could disappear and never have to face her again. But I knew it was impossible. There was no escape from her cruelty and hatred.
Then I woke up. And still, all these years later, I couldn't help but wonder why she did those things to me. Was it really just because she didn't want me around? Or was there something else going on? Something deeper than the obvious?
I was still at Reginald’s country home, moonlight filtering through the cracks in the blinds. And instead of the biting cold of the closet, I felt a warm hand holding mine.
Drake.
He was standing over me, a frown etching deep lines into his face. Even in the dim light, I could see his eyes, bright and watchful. It struck me then how protective he seemed. For a moment, I let myself bask in that feeling, something I'd never experienced in the past. His gaze dropped from my face to our joined hands, then back up to meet my eyes. I could see the questions in his gaze. He wanted answers, but I wasn't sure if I was ready to give them.
I opened my mouth to speak, wanting to tell him about the nightmare and all of the emotions it had dredged up from the depths of my soul. But as soon as I began to form words, they died on my lips. Instead of explaining what had happened, all that remained was a thick silence between us.
But it was okay. Even without speaking a word, I could feel his understanding. He squeezed my hand gently in response and nodded, offering me comfort and support even in this dark moment of vulnerability.
For a few moments we stayed like that, silent but connected by an invisible bond that transcended even language. He stood there for a moment longer, seeming to understand that my mind was still preoccupied with the events of the day and the nightmare that had jolted me awake.
"Why are you here?" I croaked, clearing my throat.
"You were having a nightmare," he answered simply. He let go of my hand, and I felt a pang of disappointment.
"Why aren't you asking what it was about?" I challenged, my guard back up. I was curious as to why he didn't probe further, why he didn't demand to know the reason behind my torment.
He looked at me for a long moment, a flash of something I couldn't quite decipher in his gaze. Then he shrugged, his lips quirking into a half-smile.
"Demons are true arseholes," he said. "They love to make us relive our worst memories, our deepest fears. And honestly, I've met a few in my line of work. It's not my place to ask you to face yours, Daphne."
His words hung in the air between us, mingling with the tension that was a constant companion these days. It was an odd moment of understanding, one I didn't expect from someone like Drake. It seemed we both had our fair share of demons.
In the silent aftermath, I felt a twinge of gratitude. For his presence, for his tact, for his weird, dark sense of humor.
"Thanks," I said quietly.
He nodded, his eyes still locked on mine. Then, without a word, he turned toward the door. Before he left, he paused, his hand on the doorknob. “One question. How did you get out of the cuffs?”
Sleepily, I muttered, “Double jointed.”
If he was surprised, he said nothing. "Get some rest, Daphne," he said softly.
With that, he disappeared through the doorway, leaving me alone with my thoughts once again. But this time the darkness didn't seem as suffocating, and the memories didn't feel as unbearable.
As I drifted back to sleep, I couldn't help but wonder what demons Drake carried with him. What nightmares haunted him in the dark? But for now, I pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the warmth of his hand, the sound of his voice, and the comfort that came with knowing he was there, watching over me.
And I shouldn’t feel at all safe. But somehow I did.
23
Daphne
Something was wrong with him. Drake was hovering. More like leaning moodily in corners. But still. All day he’d watched me warily.
After he’d watched me eat lunch, I guess he’d had enough of the silent treatment. “Christ, woman. Are you okay?”
I didn't bother to answer. I was so far the fuck away from okay. What did he expect from me? Energy and ebullience?
“You’re not talking. Even when you shouldn’t you talk. You have to start talking I'm—" He halted for a moment as if looking for the right word. And then he finally settled on, “I didn’t know.”
Again, I didn't bother to respond.
Later that evening when I was in the tub, trying to work up the energy to deal with my hair, there was a knock on the bathroom door.
I had the bubbles way up to my shoulders, so I said, “Come in.”
It was Drake not Reginald. “Oh, it’s you.”
“I know you were probably needing these things before. I'm sorry it's coming so late. But before we do much else, I need to take a look at your feet again. I'm sure they're pretty torn up, and I'll need to clean them again.”
“Okay.”
He proceeded to take my feet in his big hands, and using a separate bowl with water and soap, he cleaned my feet thoroughly. Though he was being gentle, my feet stung. I should have waited until I had shoes. But I had been so damned impatient.
When he released my feet and eased them to the side so that they stayed out of the water, I watched him warily. "I’m going to wash your hair now if that's okay."
"I'll wash it myself."
"Sure, I'll let you do that if you can lift your arms up."
I managed to try and then groaned. Fucking hell. I couldn't. The idea of having to detangle and comb through my hair made me feel like I was swimming upstream with no hope of shore on either side.
"I've got you. You don’t have to do everything alone. I’m here. Use me. Especially since you’re hurt because of me. Reginald helped me to get you some things."