Wicked Restless

“Don’t leave me, Andrew. Stay in here. Are you still here?”

I stand to my feet fast and raise a hand over the towel, clutching the top.

“I’m right here, Emma. I’ll be right here, and I’ll go anywhere you tell me to,” I say.

“Will you help me?” she asks.

“Emma…” I shut my eyes, my head falling forward onto the towel-covered glass.

“I trust you, Andrew. I…I just…I can’t seem to get myself to move. Everything feels not right. And my heart is beating so fast…”

It’s that part that gets me—Emma’s heart beating fast. I’d give anything to be the man who gets to protect that heart. I want to hold it in my hands. And the fact that she trusts me—that’s the first time I’ve felt like maybe I deserve to hold it.

I deserve her.

“Okay,” I whisper.

I slide the towel out of the way but keep my eyes trained on her head, her wet hair clinging to her cheeks and neck. I don’t dare look any further.

Reaching down with one hand, I pour a generous amount of shampoo into one hand and hold it up for her to see. There can’t be any surprises.

She nods slowly, so I move my hand over her head, lathering her hair and letting the soap run down her body. I want to look at her injuries, but nothing else.

“Where are you hurt?” I ask, my jaw tight with the question. What I really want to ask is where did that asshole hurt you?

Her eyes glance down at herself, holding her arms out slowly until she raises her hands up one at a time in front of her face and between us. Her eyes are trained on her fingers at first, but then her focus changes to my eyes.

“I. Hurt. Everywhere.”

My breath falls short and my stomach twists tightly as she breathes out the same words I spoke to her.

Her bruises—those are small and will fade quickly. But the marks we can’t see—the invisible things Graham left behind—those are things that are hurting her right now.

“Emma…” I say, moving my hands from her hair to her fingers, clutching them and bringing them forward to me until I rest them on my chest. Her body is soaking, and the water is trailing down her arms and soaking my shirt. I don’t care in the least.

“I’m so sorry, Emma,” I say. I know they seem like empty words, but they’re all I’ve got, and for me, they aren’t empty. They’re so full she has no idea—so full of love and care and a need to protect this girl.

“I know,” she says, her lashes falling with the dew from the shower spray.

I hold her hands there and just watch her with her eyes closed. I let her stand still, because I think she needs this more than she needs anything else. I let the water wash the rest of the soap from her hair, and when enough time has passed, I turn off the spray and pull the towel down from the top of the shower to wrap it around her body.

I guide her with the same care as before out of the shower, and when I’m certain she can stand all right on her own, I pull the shirt into my hands and bunch it up to slip it over her head. She lets me, and I work it down her body until the towel falls and she pushes her hands through the arms. She hugs herself in it, and somehow it gives me peace to see her do this with something of mine.

She’s staring at me now, which I guess is better than staring into nothingness. I only wish I knew what was going on in her head—I hope she knows I didn’t look while she was naked, that I kept my promise.

I tug open my sink drawer and pull out the small brush inside. I hold it up for her, then move to pass it through her hair slowly. I’m careful with the tangles, and I don’t comb any longer than I think I need to. I don’t want to hurt her, and I can see the purple on her cheek—I know her head has to hurt.

I’ve had a bruise just like that. Someone hit me to give it to me.

With her hair brushed and her body cleaned, I take her hand and walk with her back to my room, closing the door when she steps inside. I pull back my blankets and tear away the top one, laying it on the floor.

“You’re not sleeping up here?” she chokes out her question, and her body is shivering. I pause, looking at the thin blanket on the floor. I know it will be miserable, but I also know that tonight is not the night to be taking advantage of anyone.

“You can have my bed,” I explain.

“You’re leaving me alone?” she asks, her voice growing more panicked.

“I’ll be right here. I’ll even sit with my back against the bed until you fall asleep,” I say, patting the place where I intend to sit. She nods slowly, then lowers herself to my bed. I pull the remaining blankets up over her, and she wraps her arms around them just as she did my shirt. My heart rushes again.