And I knew what I needed to do.
But I wasn’t strong enough to do it then. I was going to treat my broken and battered self to a taste of the fantasy.
“Okay,” I whispered.
He patched up all of my outward bruises, his face hard, eyes soft. His hands moving over me so lightly it was like they almost didn’t touch me at all. At the same time, his touch felt heavy, grounding, like without it I’d float away.
And I’d let him.
Do all of that.
Take care of me.
I didn’t rattle on about how I could do it, about feminism, about how strong I was, about my lineage and ability to handle such situations.
Because if I said any of those things, I would’ve lied.
I was done lying to Luke.
So I let him take care of me.
He didn’t say a word while he did so, maybe sensing that I couldn’t speak, that all of my energy was going toward trying to patch up my insides as well as my outsides. He didn’t demand answers as to how it happened, why. Didn’t order me to call it in. In fact, he very purposefully ripped off his badge and set it on my nightstand.
It was a gesture.
A big one.
Huge.
One I couldn’t do anything with, couldn’t even process.
That didn’t mean I didn’t stare at that shiny piece of metal lying against the lipsticks and body creams on my nightstand.
That didn’t mean I didn’t feel it stare back at me.
“Rosie?”
I jerked my head up.
Luke stood at the edge of my bed, white shirt stained with blood, hands stained with blood.
Soul stained with blood, a voice I didn’t recognize told me. Because of you.
I looked behind him. To where the dead body used to lay. To where a puddle of blood had stained my rug, seeped onto my polished hardwood floors.
The body was gone.
Same with the rug.
And the blood.
I wondered where he put him. Why he didn’t call it in. How much time had passed.
I didn’t ask any of those questions.
I met his eyes. “Have you ever killed someone before?” I asked, my voice flat.
He flinched, though I wasn’t sure if it was at my question or at the unfamiliar tenor of my voice. There was a long silence as he stared at me. Very long.
“No,” he said finally.
I hid my flinch.
“Neither had I,” I whispered. “Well, technically I have, I guess. But today was the first time up close and personal.” I laughed without humor. It was ugly and empty and I hated it. “Guess I popped both our cherries today.”
Luke’s stiff body moved, as if he couldn’t hold himself away anymore. He knelt at the bed. Then, not taking his eyes off me, he slowly moved his hands, making a point of showing me his intention, giving me the chance to stop him.
I didn’t.
He gently cupped my face. “I’ve got a lot of regrets in my life, Rosie,” he said. “A lot. Fair few of them involve the beautiful woman I’m lookin’ at right now.”
I flinched. And I didn’t hide it that time.
His brow narrowed. “Don’t you come to your own wrong conclusions hearin’ that,” he ordered. “None of them are because of you,” he said firmly. “They’re ’cause of me. ’Cause of the wrong things I did, the right things I failed to do. ’Cause of my fuckin’ archaic views of what constituted right and wrong. Of all the things I regret in this life, pulling that trigger will never be one. Never.” He pulled my head slightly toward him. “You’re not gonna try and put it on you, tell yourself the fault lies with you for what I did. Because that’s bullshit. There are some good things I’ve done in my life, and I hate to say there’s not enough that involve you. I intend on changin’ that. But if there’s one truly good thing I did, it was murder that piece of shit. My conscience is clear on that count.”
I blinked at him. And then stared at him for a long time. There was a lot to process in that monologue. A lot of things I could’ve said. A lot of things I wanted to say.
“The blood,” I said instead, looking between us.
“What?” Luke followed my gaze, as if he’d forgotten we were both covered in it.
Him more so.
I tried not to dwell on that.
“Shit, yeah, okay.” He stared at me. “You gonna be able to get up, Rosie?”
I didn’t answer, ignoring the pain as I sat up, swinging my legs to touch the floor that stank of ammonia.
The room was crackling with the strength of his anger, his frustration. I glanced to his fist, which was eye level. It was clenched so hard the smooth tanned skin was whitening under the power with which he was restraining himself. From helping me up.
He wanted to. More than wanted to. I guessed every inch of him needed to. It was his job, after all, protecting those people who couldn’t help themselves.
But I could help myself. I had to.
He’d already lost enough protecting me.
“Rosie,” he choked out as I pushed to my feet, grimacing against the pain.
“I’m okay,” I whispered, focusing on the floor. Putting one foot in front of the other.
The second I stumbled, I was no longer on my feet. I was in his arms.
I didn’t even try and protest. I couldn’t. Shame washed over me. Not at needing help, but at the warmth that spread through me from Luke’s tenderness. That sick little person inside my head telling me that this was what was needed to happen to get us to happen.
I needed to blacken his soul so he had no choice but to come down to the gutter with me.
He brushed my sticky hair from my face as he walked us into my bathroom. “You don’t have to be,” he murmured.
I jerked my head up to meet his gaze. “Have to what?”
He set me down next to the tub, keeping one hand on my hip to steady me, reaching over to start the shower with the other. He straightened, cupping my face carefully, avoiding the worst of the bruises. “Be okay,” he said. “Pretend you’re okay. Be strong. I already know how strong you are, baby. Spent my life learnin’ just how strong, so you don’t need to convince me of anything. Don’t need to protect me from it either. Know you live in a world where strength is part of the job description, but there’s no need for that with me, Rosie. You don’t have to do anything, be anything.” His hard jaw clenched even more. “’Specially after today. You don’t need to be fuckin’ okay.” His grip tightened, as if he momentarily forgot he needed to be handling me with care. “I’m not fuckin’ okay. That shit”—he jerked his head to my bedroom—“is gonna be burned on my brain for the rest of my life. So I’m gonna have to spend it reminding myself that it didn’t take you from this world. From me.”
I blinked at him. My body hurt. Like a motherfucker. My soul was ripped, bleeding too. But those words ruined it.
Everything. Me.
They were everything I wanted to hear. Everything I hoped for.
But too late.
He didn’t wait for me to speak, seemed to realize I couldn’t.
Luke stepped back.
“I’ll let you clean up,” he rasped.
“No,” I pleaded.
His eyes jerked upward.
“I need… I want…. I want you to clean up too. To clean me. And I can clean you.”