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The closer she got to Hemlock’s room, the more desperate her steps became. She didn’t want to disturb him, but the thought of being alone right now was unbearable. She hated to admit she needed him.

She reached his door and hesitated for a moment, trying to steady her breathing, but the slight tremor in her hands betrayed her. With a quiet exhale, she pushed the door open, not bothering to knock.

The faint light from the hallway illuminated the edge of the room, casting a soft glow. Her heart sank as she scanned the room, it was empty.

The empty room swallowed her whole, the quiet a suffocating pressure in her chest. Charlie stood frozen in the doorway, her eyes darting from corner to corner, half-expecting to see Hemlock appear from the shadows or hear his footsteps behind her. But there was nothing. Just her own breaths against the silence.

Her heart raced, and she fought the impulse to turn around and run back to her room. She wasn’t sure if it was the aftermath of the nightmare, the dull ache in her face, or the sudden crushing loneliness that had the overwhelming fear gnawing at her.

Her feet moved before her mind could catch up, each step down the hallway toward the stairs feeling heavier than the last. Standing at the bottom of the steps, the room despite its size felt smaller, the beige walls unwelcoming. The leather sofas, dark and uninviting, seemed to mock her, their stiffness reminding her of how out of place she felt.

Charlie paused in the center of the room, looking toward the kitchen. The house was unnervingly quiet, every soft creak and groan of the old floors making her skin crawl. She thought of the warmth upstairs, and her hand went instinctively to her face again, feeling the tender pressure on her swollen cheek. The throbbing had intensified, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. She winced at the pain, and the cold dread that had settled into her stomach flared up once more.

She stood in the middle of the kitchen, the cold ice pack clutched in her hand, staring at the open cupboard in front of her. Disappointed at the lack of pain relievers, she closed the cabinet door. The throbbing pain in her face was relentless, like a pulse she couldn’t escape. Her head felt like it was going to crack open, the pressure building in waves, and the weight of it made her vision blur.

Squeezing her eyes shut, trying to fight back the tears that threatened to spill, the overwhelming discomfort pushing her closer to the edge. Her hand gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white as she fought the dizziness threatening to overtake her. The pain in her face made it feel like someone had taken a sledgehammer to her skull, and the absence of the aspirin, of something to ease the ache, only made the isolation she felt worse. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep herself from breaking down completely.

She turned slowly, her feet heavy beneath her, and headed for the stairs. Maybe she could make it back to her room. By the time she reached the stairs, the pain in her face had spread like wildfire, each step upward making her vision swim. She could feel her pulse in her temples now, each beat a reminder of the dream, the panic, and the unbearable ache were all tangled up together and just out of reach. She changed her decision to climb the stairs and headed for the living room.

Charlie curled up on the couch, the familiar scent of the throw blanket wrapping around her like a fragile shield. The cold press of the ice against her cheek was a small comfort, but it did little to ease the storm inside her. She pressed it harder against her skin, the sharp coolness a fleeting relief as she let the tears fall in silence.

Her thoughts spiraled back to the hotel suite. The image of the destroyed room, the overturned furniture, the clothes torn apart and scattered across the floor—all of it burned into her mind.

The worst part was the quiet certainty of who had done it. She didn’t need proof; she didn’t need a confession. She knew exactly who had been behind the destruction. Without proof, she had nothing.

No matter how hard she tried to figure out why Ashley and Crispen continued to torture her, Charlie couldn’t come up with a single reason. They had the apartment which she was forced to pay for. Even the damn utilities were in her name. Even the furniture was hers. As tears ran down her face, she knew until she stopped being a doormat Ashley and Crispen would continue harassing her. Closing her eyes against the bright lights of the living room, she rested her head on the sofa.

The sound of keys jangling, and a door opening had Charlie lifting her head and dragging the blanket up further. Her eyes burned from crying and felt puffy. She could barely keep them open because she was so tired, but every time she dozed off, she’d end up in that damn dream again. She was at the point if it wasn’t Hemlock coming home, whoever it was, could just kill her. At least she’d be put out of her misery. She heard the keys hit the wooden bowl on the entrance table and knew it was Hemlock.

Hemlock opened the front door hoping he wouldn’t wake Charlie. Dropping his keys and wallet into the bowl he softly swore as it rattled. Glancing towards the living room, he noticed all the lights were on. He stopped in the kitchen to grab a soda from the fridge when he saw her tucked into the corner of the sofa. Her eyes were full of fear and exhaustion. Her face looked worse, and she was most definitely in pain. Grabbing a bottle of water, he headed straight for her. “How bad?” he asked as he took a seat on the sofa facing her.

Charlie didn’t know where to start, she just fell apart right there on the stupid couch surrounded by drab walls. She didn’t know why the wall color was affecting her, but it was. It was just as sad looking as she was. She whispered, her voice small, barely audible. “Just... my head hurts.”

“Okay, it’s time for bed and a painkiller, sweetheart.”

“Okay,” she said between sobs. She didn’t even tell him she’d been in bed already once that night.

Some fucking nurse he was turning out to be. He hadn’t even offered her a single pain pill at the clinic. On the other hand, she had walked out before they could give her a prescription for them. “Are you allergic to anything, Charlie?” He watched her barely shake her head no.

He moved around the room, as if searching for something, and in a moment, he returned with a glass of water, a bottle of pills, and a new cold pack. His hand moved to her face to carefully apply the new ice pack. The coolness felt like relief and torture at the same time, but it was better than nothing.

“Tomorrow we’re going back to the clinic and doing an MRI on your face.”

Charlie’s gaze flickered between him and the water, and though she didn’t want to admit it, the simple gesture was the smallest kind of salvation. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice thick with exhaustion, and her body shook from the pain.

“Alright.” Hemlock stood and reached for her hand, helping her off the sofa. When she barely stumbled forward, he reached down and scooped her up into his arms. “Don’t fight me, Charlie,” he said when she tried stopping him. “You’re exhausted and hurting. I’m putting you to bed.”

He felt her hand moving underneath her legs and realized her ass was probably hanging out and she was worried about it. “Stop squirming before I drop you on your bare ass.” That got her immediate attention. “I’ve seen plenty of asses, yours isn’t any different,” his voice harsher than he intended.

“Mines perfect,” she mumbled against his chest.

“I’m sure it is.”Damn straight it was. He’d got a good look at it the night she almost killed him. It hadn’t even been bare at that time, but it looked perfect in the pants she had on. They had hugged her perfect heart shape ass as if they were painted on.

Chapter Eight

Hemlock had found himself torn. He’d spent the better part of the night wondering what would be best for Charlie: should he let her sleep alone, or should he stay close in case she needed anything? His reasoning was simple enough, if she were in the spare bedroom, he wouldn’t hear her if something happened. But, if she slept in his room, he could keep an eye on her, make sure she was comfortable, and step in if she needed anything during the night.

Standing at the top of the stairs, Hemlock hesitated. His eyes flicked first to the spare bedroom, where the door was ajar, the room bathed in a dim light from the hall. Then his gaze turned right, to his own room. It was quieter there. More intimate. And though the room felt vast, it suddenly felt too empty with the thought of her being so far away.