He sinks down on the edge of the bed and reaches for my hands. I try to flinch away, but he doesn’t let me, enfolding my smaller hands in his large, roughened ones, holding them tightly until my eyes focus and meet his.
“You’re okay, little Saint,” he murmurs. “You’re here, in your bed. We’re here, and we won’t let anyone hurt you. They won’t get to you again.”
I lick my dry lips and instantly regret it, tears of pain springing to my eyes as my tongue runs over the split, raw patches. I want to keep crying, but I can’t breathe. Suddenly to my shock, Cayde’s arms go around me, lifting me up off of the bed, and even though every muscle and bone and nerve in my body screams in protest at him moving me, I don’t care.
Because this is what I need right now. And somehow, he knew.
Dean doesn’t hold me, and that’s not surprising in the least. Whatissurprising is that I see him climbing onto the bed out of the corner of my eye. A moment later, I feel his hand on my back, rubbing in small, tight circles as I gasp for air and sob between breaths.
I don’t know how long it goes on for. Too long, probably, but Cayde doesn’t let go of me. He just keeps holding me, keeps comforting me, until I feel some of the need to scream and cry, leave me, and I sag into his embrace, my cheek resting on his shoulder.
I would never have thought that either of them would be there for me at this moment when I need someone the most.
It also doesn’t escape my notice that Jaxon isn’t here.
“How do you feel?” Dean finally asks when I’ve stopped crying. He moves some of the pillows behind me so that I can lean back, another oddly sweet gesture that makes my chest tighten. I swallow hard, biting back a whimper of pain as I lean into the pillows.
“Not good,” I admit. “I don’t think there’s any part of me that doesn’t hurt.”
“Do you remember anything?” Cayde frowns. “Anything you can remember will help, Athena. We want to find them.”
I close my eyes briefly. For all my thoughts of revenge, I don’t reallywantto remember. I don’t want to be able to put a face to the bodies that abused mine for hours. It’s bad enough that I can see the girl so clearly. But even if I wanted to, I can’t.
“I’ve only really seen the girl,” I say finally. “And not well. Black hair, green eyes. I feel like there’s something else I noticed, but it’s fuzzy. All I can think is a star? But that doesn’t make sense.”
“Like a birthmark? Or a tattoo?” Dean presses his lips together. “What do you mean, a star?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. They waited for the drug that was in my drink to kick in before they came for me. So everything was blurry and fuzzy the whole night. I was aware of what was happening, but I couldn’t really see well, and I couldn’t move.”
“Who gave you the drink?” There’s a hard, dangerous edge to Cayde’s voice.
“He had brown hair—jeans and a leather jacket.” I look up at Cayde miserably. “I know that could have been a lot of guys at the party.”
“And you took it?” I can hear the anger creeping into Dean’s voice. “You took a drink from a stranger?”
“Dean, not now.” Cayde glares at him sideways. “We can’t change what happened. It’s not her fault. Blame the asshole who drugged her.”
Cayde St. Vincent, fighting the good fight against victim-blaming. Who would have thought?Part of me thinks I died and woke up in an alternate reality. It’s like I have the good twin versions of Cayde and Dean sitting on my bed, doppelgängers that I’ve never seen before. I have to remind myself that this is probably temporary, that as soon as my wounds heal and my bruises fade, they’ll be tormenting me again, ready to lay new marks on my skin.
Marks that you enjoy getting, no matter how much you want to pretend you don’t.
I can’t think about that right now, though. “I’m sorry I don’t remember more,” I whisper. “They put me in a truck, and I remember the roads being rough. There was a cabin. That’s all. I was in and out of consciousness for a lot of it, and some of it I’m not even sure if it was real or just my imagination. They drugged me again in the middle of—what they were doing to me, I remember that.”
“Did the men touch you?” Dean’s expression hardens. “Did they—”
“Yes.” I can’t bring myself to say it out loud, to explain what they did, but I know what Dean means. “Yeah. More than one. I don’t know how many. Three or four maybe, and more than once. The girl—she held me down. But I don’t remember their faces.”
I swallow hard, tears welling up in my eyes again. “Shh,” Cayde says, shaking his head. “We’ll talk about it more later. You need to rest and heal. Don’t push yourself.”
I just nod because I’m too exhausted to do anything else.
Rest and heal.
It’s easier said than done.
* * *
One MonthLater