Page 52

They carried the weight of everything I’d been trying to hold back. I shook my head, my whole body trembling. The image of Daniella, naked, bloody, and broken, crawling across the floor, wouldn’t leave me.

This was all my fault.

I’d brought these psychopaths right to them.

“Mint,” Wilder’s voice was low, almost soothing.

I shook my head again, harder this time. “This is all my fault,” I repeated, my voice cracking under the weight of my guilt. “If I hadn’t—if I hadn’t been here—” My words caught, a sob choking the rest of the sentence out of me.

He moved before I even realized it, crouching in front of me. His gloved hands settled on my knees. “This isn’t your fault, baby.”

“Itis,” I snapped, my voice rising despite the tears choking me. “If I hadn’t come on this stupid trip—”

He cut me off, his hands moving to pull mine away from my face. “Look at me,” he demanded.

When I didn’t, he gripped my chin and forced my eyes to meet his.

“None of this is your fault. Those people made their choices, and this is the result.”

“Whatchoices?” I shot back. “They didn’t choose this, Wilder. Daniella didn’t choose to die crawling on the floor!”

“You’re looking at this wrong. You couldn’t have saved them. You couldn’t have stopped this. If we didn’t do this here, it would have happened at your house. The only difference would be the body count.”

He wrapped his around me and lifted me effortlessly from the floor. My body trembled against his chest, and I hated how his warmth felt steady, grounding, like a cruel contradiction to the chill seeping through my soul. His movements were methodical as he set me down on the edge of the tub and knelt in front of me.

He removed my shoes first, then his hands moved to my ruined pants. I flinched, but he was gentle, peeling them away before reaching for a knife I hadn’t even seen him retrieve.

With swift precision, he cut through the fabric of my sweatshirt, leaving me exposed entirely. His touch never wavered, it wasn’t rushed or cruel.

“You don’t have to do this too.”

His response was quiet but firm. “ I do. I will always take care of you.”

He eased me into the tub, the hot water shocking against my skin but washing away the filth that clung to me. My body stiffened as he adjusted my position, leaning back slightly before grabbing a washcloth. He started with my hair, his fingers working shampoo through it with a care that made me want to scream. This shouldn’t have felt so normal, so intimate.

Then he moved to my body, the cloth brushing against my skin in slow, deliberate strokes. When he reached my wrists, he retrieved the knife again, carefully slicing through the twine.

My skin was raw, the lacerations angry and red, but he didn’t flinch as he gently cleaned them, his hands steady as ever. How could I fight this? My sister was alive—for now. But for how long? That was the question I couldn’t stop turning over in my mind.

I knew, without having to ask, she hadn’t made it to that farm. If it even existed.

“There was never really a farm, was there?”

His fingers paused for a fraction of a second before resuming their methodical care. “Of course, there is. It belongs to the man who owned this house. He, his wife, and their daughter, Melody. She’s the same age as you.”

A chill ran down my spine, his words settling over me like a dark fog. “Owned?”

He didn’t look up, his focus remaining on my wrists as he dabbed at the tender skin. “Owned,” he confirmed.

“And they’re just… gone?”

“Two of three.” His hand moved to tilt my chin up, forcing me to look at him. “Before you can start, that had nothing to do with you.”

I wasn’t going to think about that right then. “And Cherish. Where is my sister?”

“She’s downstairs.” His tone was maddeningly matter-of-fact.

“Unharmed. Despite what you’re thinking right now, we’re not all-around terrible. Lucian meant it when he said they care about you.”