“She’s stable and from what I can tell, her injuries are purely external.”
“Is she going to be alright?”
“She’ll be perfectly fine.”
“Did they-?” I can’t finish the question. I swallow thickly and search his eyes. He knows what I’m asking.
“The rape kit came back negative.” I cringe at his answer but nod my head and let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I’ll never forgive myself for what they did to her. But I am relieved to know they didn’t abuse her like that. She deserves better. She sure as fuck deserves better than me, but after what happened, I can’t let her go just yet. They know where she lives. Where she works. The doctor and Pops have a few words, but I don’t listen. I’m just focused on the fact that she’s alright.
Right now she’s alone though. I don’t like that. I want to be there when she wakes up. I stand up, ready to go see her. “Where are you going?” Jack asks me as I grab the door handle.
Where the fuck does he think I’m going? I stare at him for a minute, just so he can squirm under my gaze. I didn’t forget what he said. And he sure as shit better not forget what I told him. After a moment I leave, shutting the door a little harder than I should.
I wish Jack’s fucking head was between the door and the frame. I shake off my anger and try to calm myself. If she’s awake, she’s not gonna like me storming in there with a temper.
I open the door slowly and walk into my childhood bedroom. Not that it looks like one. Statistics books and other textbooks line the back of my desk, lined up in a neat row. Other than the books, the desk is cleared off. Exactly how I like it. The desk is solid maple and stained dark espresso in color. It’s modern, and reflects the rest of the furniture in the room. My sheets and comforter are perfectly white, and the walls are a cool grey. The only personality is provided by a simple framed, enlarged photograph on the wall. It’s an abstract shot with bursts of colors. I don’t know why I like it. But I do. Other than the framed photograph, my room displays order and discipline. It’s how I grew up. It’s how I stayed out of the mafia.
Lying under the sheets is Becca. The white sheets bring color to her complexion. I’m grateful for it. She’s completely still with her arms placed at her sides, and her eyes are closed. Without the color, she would look dead. I pull the desk chair to the side of the bed and sit next to her, taking her hand in mine. She’s warm. I watch her chest rise and fall gently. My heart seems to slow to beat in time with hers.
Bruises still cover her face and arms and the rest of her body. Even worse, the rope burns on her wrists may actually scar. On the nightstand next to the bed are ointments and bandages. The doctor applied them before he left, but I’ll take care of her from here on out. I’ll make sure this doesn’t scar her. Not in any way. She inhales a deep breath and winces in pain. I know she’s on pain meds, but maybe not enough.
“Becca?” My voice is hopeful, just as I am. I need her to wake up. I need her to tell me everything. And I need to apologize.
Her eyelids slowly open in a daze, either from a concussion or the meds, or maybe just exhaustion. I take her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles, keeping my eyes on her face. Watching her every movement.
“I’m here, doll. You’re alright.” Her eyes blink slowly and she turns her head, rubbing her cheek against the pillow. It takes a moment, but her eyes find mine. They seem to widen slightly, but she's still dazed.
“Jax?” She barely breathes his name.
I give her a reassuring smile. “He’s downstairs playing. He has no idea.” She closes her eyes and lets out a long exhale before slowly opening them again.
“Thank you.” Her hand weakly squeezes mine. Her head turns, and she winces in pain again before staring at nothing. “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.” My throat starts to close, so I grunt a cough and clear my throat. “It’s my fault, doll. I’m sorry.” I fucking hate that I’m apologizing. Not that I shouldn’t be, but that I’ve hurt her again.
She shakes her head slowly and then takes a deep, shuddering breath. She rubs her eyes and tries to get up, but I gently push her shoulders down.
She looks at me like I punched her. “I need to get Jax.”
“He’s downstairs.” She’s fucking crazy to think she’s going anywhere.
“I need to take him home.” Fuck that. That shit’s not happening.
“You’ll come home with me tonight.” I’m already dreading the drive, but we aren’t staying with my parents. I have a house and a room for her and Jax. I’ll take care of them.
She pushes me away, but then seems to consider my words. “Are they going to come back?”
“They will never hurt you again. I’m going to find them. I’ll take care of this.” Tears well in her eyes.
“I can’t just stay here.” Her voice is pained.
“Don’t worry, Becca. I’ll take care of everything.”
She shakes her head and says, “You don’t understand. I have work; Jax has school and soccer. I have a life.” She takes in a strangled breath. “I had a life.” Her knees pull into her chest, and she rolls over and buries her face in her hands. She sobs, and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to tell her.
She can’t just go to work. She wouldn’t want to if she got a look at herself anyway. She can’t go home. I can’t let her out of my sight. I’m not going to give them another chance to hurt her.
“Phone!” She pops up too quickly for me to stop her.
“Doll, lie back down.” I try to get her to lie back, but she’s on her feet and looking around the room for her clothes. She’s holding a sheet draped around her.
“I need my phone and my clothes.” What the hell is wrong with her?
“You need to relax and take it easy.”
She shakes her head, but at least she stops in her tracks. “I need my phone.” She just keeps repeating herself. I finally pick it up off the bedside table and hand it to her.
“Where are my clothes?” she asks with her eyes on her phone.
“Trashed.” Her eyes shoot up at me. “I’ll get you new ones.”
“You don’t need to do that. I can get my own.” The way she says it makes my chest hurt. “I just need to get back. I have so much I need to catch up on.”
As I stare at her like she’s crazy, the doctor knocks gently and walks in immediately after. His bushy white eyebrows raise when he sees Becca out of bed.
“Mrs. Harrison?” he asks with skepticism.
She stares at him with wide eyes until her phone beeps in her hands and she starts typing away. There is obviously something very fucked up with her head right now.
“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? I need to do a small physical as well now that you’re awake.”
“I’m fine. Really, I’m fine.” I quirk a brow at her. Who the fuck says she’s fine after going through that shit? And who the fuck is she texting? I stand up and grab her by the waist to pull her back to the bed. She goes rigid in my arms, but she doesn’t fight me.