So I push the driver’s chair all the way back and hold her in my lap as I drive home.
“Please, be okay. Please, forgive me. Please…”
23
Siren
I can’t open my eyes, but I’m still aware of everything happening.
I hear Zeke kick Julian’s ass.
I feel him carry me in his arms. I should hate him. He’s the reason I’m hurting. But in his strong arms, I feel safe, protected.
Stupid mind thinking I could ever be secure with a man.
I feel him holding me tighter to his chest on his lap, like a wounded bird. That’s what I am? Wounded? Broken? A goddamn disaster.
I feel every bump in the truck as he drives us back, but I try my best not to whimper. I want to be back at Zeke’s house as soon as possible, even if I have to deal with a little extra pain.
And then I feel Zeke carry me into the house. He flicks lights on as he goes. I moan as the brightness stings my eyes even though they are still closed.
“I’m sorry, but I need to be able to see your wounds to help you,” Zeke whispers, like each word pains him.
Even though the gag is gone, I still don’t speak in anything but moans and groans. Julian took my voice, along with everything else.
I hear Zeke sweep something onto the floor, and then he lays me down on the dining room table.
I shiver as the cool hits my back.
“Hold on,” Zeke says.
I chuckle on the inside. There is nothing for me to hold onto, you idiot.
Time does weird things when you are in pain. A second later, or maybe an hour, Zeke returns. He places a thick blanket over me.
“I’m going to check over your wounds, okay? I need to stop any bleeding and make sure nothing needs stitches.”
He waits. He’s asking me for fucking permission to heal me. It’s too fucking late to ask for permission now, you prick! You should have asked me before you bought me. Before you tried to sell me.
He waits a second longer, then curses under his breath. He must have decided he’s out of time to get permission.
He checks over my head first, placing a bandage on my forehead. I hear him hiss when he gets to my jaw. But he doesn’t say anything.
He examines my neck next. He must decide it’s okay, because he quickly moves to my chest and stomach.
He gasps—it must be bad.
I feel something stick into my arm. He’s giving me drugs. The warmth spreads quickly, and I instantly feel light as a feather. I’m floating above all the pain. It’s still there, the pain, but it doesn’t control me anymore.
I try to see what he’s doing, but it’s still too painful to open my eyes.
I feel his hands work on my stomach. He’s probably stitching me up, but he must be very skilled at it because I don’t feel the stick of a needle or the pull of thread.
I feel him cut the rope from my arms, remove the gag dangling from my neck, and re-wrap the blanket around my torso. Then he frees my legs as well.
The blanket is covering most of my body, but I feel him hesitate before lifting it up to see between my legs.
Almost instantly, he lowers the blanket again. Either I look normal, or there is too much damage for him to fix.
And then I feel his hand against my face, stroking me gently.
“I need to wash out your eyes,” he says.
He’s right, but I don’t want to open my eyes. I’m not sure how he knows my eyes need washing out.
“I’m going to get some water, and then I’m going to stop the burning.”
He doesn’t ask me for permission this time, knowing I won’t answer him right now. I hear the faucet run, and then he’s by my side again.
He takes my hand and places it on his forearm.
“Squeeze hard,” he commands. I do as he says. Gently opening my left eye, he begins flushing out the alcohol.
I squeeze his forearm as he pushes more water through my eye. Eventually, I feel the sting soften. He lets go of my eye, and I close it gently to prepare for him to flush the other one.
He doesn’t give me time to think about the pending pain. He just moves to the next eye and does what needs to be done. I squeeze hard as pain stings my eye, but it too dissipates.
Zeke stops.
And I keep my eyes closed.
My breathing steadies.
The discomfort eases.
And Zeke—he’s still here.
Time passes as my exhausted body falls into a restless sleep from the drugs Zeke pushed through me. At first, I fight it. I don’t trust Zeke, or any man, when I’m under the pull of drugs. But I need rest to heal.
“You’re safe,” he whispers. “I won’t let anyone hurt you. Ever again. Including me.”
And with those unreal promises ringing in my ears, I drift to sleep.
I wake in a soft bed. I’m lying in the middle with pillows all around me. I’m in Zeke’s bed, so I expect to see him sleeping next to me.
But when I open my eyes, I find him kneeling next to the bed, his head bent, his hands clasped together and folded. I recognize the position—my father was a religious man. He’d pray every night before getting into bed.
Zeke can’t be praying, though? Is he?
“Are you praying?” I ask, looking at him suspiciously.
His head pops up suddenly. All kinds of emotions cross his face—joy, fear, pain. His face finally settles on a reserved expression hiding his emotions.
“I’m not religious. And if God exists, I would be one of the last people he would listen to. But I had to try. Your heartbeat was so weak. I couldn’t understand why. You didn’t lose much blood, from what I could see. I assumed you were bleeding internally. And if you were, I wouldn’t be able to get you to a decent hospital in time. All I could do was pray.”
My mouth drops.
“What did you pray?”
“I begged for you to stay.”
I gulp. He looks so sincere—in so much pain, watching me.
I don’t know how long I’ve been out, but it doesn’t look like he’s slept. Julian’s blood still speckles with mine all over Zeke’s clothes. His hair is barely held up by his scrunchie. His eyes are bloodshot. And he looks to be in physical pain.
“Are you injured?” I ask.
“Not physically,” he answers. Just emotionally.
I blink, not understanding how he’s hurting emotionally.
“You didn’t sell me?” I meant my words to be a statement, but they come out as a question. Did he sell me? Was he just pissed at Julian for touching me before the money had been transferred?
He’s silent a moment, still as a statue. But his eyes pour into mine, giving me everything. Then he says, “I lied. I never planned on selling you and I never will.”
What? My eyebrows reach epic levels on my forehead. He lied?
“I know it means you get to kill me now, but can you at least wait until I apologize first?” he smiles gently, testing the waters with me.
It’s a damn gorgeous smile—complete with a shy dimple I didn’t notice before, but all I can focus on is what he just said. He wants to apologize?! I don’t think anyone, especially a man, has apologized to me before.
“Can you reserve your punishment until I finish speaking?” he asks.