Page 40

Rafferty

“ G et the fuck out of my way!”

The two servants exchange glances like they’re actually considering fighting me and before I can give them another moment to contemplate it, I push past with Scarlett curled up in my arms. I should feel lucky that more staff haven’t come along to try to contain her, but if they had I would have fought every single one of them.

I can feel her blood trickling down my arm, I can feel the dampness seeping through my clothes.

I don’t need to ask what it is. I don’t need to speak the words.

It’s abundantly clear what this is. What she’s experiencing.

I carry her through the house, no longer giving a fuck about subterfuge or secrets because we’re so far beyond that.

But when I get to my wing, I make sure to bolt the doors anyway. For all I know they’ll come stab me in my sleep and what good will I be to Scarlett then?

She whimpers, tensing up, and I know she’s feeling another wave of pain.

“It’s alright.” I say, even though that’s a lie.

It’s so far from fucking alright.

She’s shaking like a leaf; her eyes are wide with fear and pain. I can feel the heat of her feverish body through my shirt, and I know something is seriously wrong.

I sit her down gently on the edge of the bathtub, and she looks up at me with those pleading, broken eyes.

“Rafe,” she whispers, her voice hoarse from crying.

I’d heard her. Heard her screams, heard the chaos and the destruction. It’d been like a beacon, a calling song, and I’d raced through the house until I found her.

But it wasn’t the damage that made me stop, it wasn’t even that harrowing, desperate sound she was making, it was the haunting, defeated look in her eyes.

And the blood. So much blood. Trickling down, pooling by her knees. I don’t want to think about what this means, whose it might be. I just need to take care of her. That’s all that matters.

I turn the shower on, not really sure if this is the right call, but what exactly do you do when someone is experiencing what Scarlett is?

I help her to her feet and she sways slightly, steadying herself against me.

I strip off my clothes quickly, not wanting to leave her alone for even a second. I guide her into the shower, stepping in behind her.

For a second, she shakes her head, and I can tell that it’s shame, or embarrassment or something that makes her want to push me away.

“It’s disgusting.” She gasps before her chest heaves, and she’s sobbing.

“Don’t you fucking dare.” I snap before I can stop myself.

That seems to break her, to cause whatever last grip she has on herself to let go entirely. She all but falls onto the floor, heaving, sobbing, literally breaking apart.

I drop to my knees, cradling her as she shakes violently.

And for what feels like forever, we don’t speak. We just stay there, with the hot water pouring over us, and her body shifting as that pain twists inside her. I keep my arms tight, afraid that if I let her go she might truly crumble into tiny pieces.

I can feel her heart beating wildly, her breath hot against my skin.

“I, I didn’t know.” She gasps, finally breaking the awful spell. She doesn’t move, she just stays where she is.

I don’t know what to say. How to reply. Any words feel weak, feel wrong. Nothing I say will give her the support she needs right now, nothing I say will fix this.

She tucks her face into my chest, clearly seeking the physical comfort of my body.

I lift my hand to brush that soaking wet hair out of her eyes and she flinches.

“Please don’t touch me. I’m disgusting.” She says, echoing those same words she’d said earlier.

Anger surges through me. Pure fucking fury seems to bring me back from the point of despair. I grab her face, forcing her to look at me.

“You’re not.” I growl. “You’re beautiful. Every piece of you is beautiful, and you’re brave too. Too fucking brave.”

She chokes up as she shuts her eyes, shaking her head. “If I were brave, I would have done something, would have realised sooner.”

“What could you have done?” I ask, refusing to back down. Refusing to let her think that she’s responsible for any of this.

“I could’ve…” She trails off as if whatever vision in her head is too much to speak out loud. “I should have been smarter. I should have realised that some of those meds were contraceptives before I puked them up.”

I draw in a deep breath. “It’s not your fault. None of this is.”

“Yes, it is.” She says, suddenly lashing out, slapping herself as she has to express all the anger and pain inside herself. “I should have thought. I should have considered it. I was so fucking stupid.”

“You’re not stupid.”

“I am.” She snaps. “I am. I should have known this could happen. I should have…” Her words turn to a wail as she grabs her stomach, as she heaves over, breaking that much more.

“Shh, it’s okay,” I murmur, running my hand up and down her spine, soothing her the only way I can.

“I would have loved it.” She says so quietly, as if she’s afraid of my reaction. “Despite how it was created, despite who its father could have been. I would have loved it anyway.”

I don’t know how far along she was. She certainly wasn’t pregnant when they brought her here and the fact that she wasn’t showing or having any symptoms?

I doubt she’s more than a few weeks at best. But that follows the timeline, that fits with her suddenly becoming more aware, more of a person and less of their drugged-up zombie.

“You can have others.” I say, even though I don’t know if that is true. Even if I don’t know if she even wants them.

She hiccups, her sobs turning erratic. “But this was mine, this was mine!” The awful wail in her voice sounds like it comes from her very soul. I can feel her pain, her heartbreak, as if it were my own.

It’s clear what I said hasn’t helped, but I feel fucking helpless. I feel useless. Powerless.

Fuck. What do I do?

There’s ultimately nothing I can do. Nothing I can say, nothing that will fix this.

I can’t get some magic pill and take away all this horrific trauma.

I can’t do a damned fucking thing but sit with her, be with her, hold her hand and hope that my presence alone is enough. Please God, let it be enough.

She clings to me, her nails digging into my skin as she cries, and I welcome that pain. I fucking relish it. If that’s what is needed, if that’s what helps then she can beat me, flog me, fucking kill me. I would die willingly. I would pass her the knife and smile as she cut out my goddamn heart.

I wish I could take it all away, absorb it into myself so she wouldn’t have to feel it anymore. But all I can do is hold her, be her anchor in this storm. I cradle her, letting her pour out all her anguish, all her fear, every awful emotion.

But I’m thinking about my brother. About my father.

About my parents. They did this. They allowed this.

They created this entire situation because they couldn’t face the thought of the so-called great fucking Forster name disappearing into ruin.

They couldn’t face the idea that someone, the Heath’s, could have bettered them.

It’s their toxicity, their evil, their desperate need for revenge that has unleashed this destruction on the woman I can’t live without.

I don’t know when it happened, I don’t know at what point she weaved her way into my soul, but that’s what she’s done. She’s ensnared herself there, buried herself there, made a god damn home in the deepest darkest pits of me, and there’s no way of exorcising her.

“I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

“Am I?” She says, blinking back at me, her words a scornful jest. “Am I safe?”

“I won’t let them near you again. I won’t let any more of this happen…”

The hardness sets in her eyes. The old Scarlett seems to rear her head and I swear I can see that defiant flash of a monster stirring. “It’s not over, Rafe. It’s not fucking over until they’re dead.”

Is she serious? She wants to continue this madness?

I open my mouth to argue, and then I realise that I have no right to tell her what to do.

This was her choice. It always was. She might not have known the finer details of what she was getting into, she might not have realised the level of depravity my family would stoop to, but she knew it was dangerous, she knew her life was on the line.

It was her decision to make then. Just as it is now.

I grit my teeth, too emotionally drained for a conversation and I reach for the soap, lathering it up in my hands before gently washing her.

She freezes for a second before she relaxes enough to tell me she’s comfortable with it.

I start with her shoulders, working my way down her arms, her back, her stomach.

I’m careful, so careful, as I clean away the dirt and the blood.

She flinches as I wash between her legs, and I shush her softly, pressing a kiss to her temple feeling like it’s the only way I can show her, can prove to her that I understand on some level what she’s going through.

“I’m sorry, Little Bird,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

When she’s finally clean, I turn off the water and step out of the shower, grabbing a thick, soft towel.

In slow sweeps, I dry her off, taking note of every mark, every bruise, every awful bit of evidence of what she’s endured over the last few days, and those before that.

She stands mute, silent, like a statue, and I think then that I want the anger, the fury. I want her rage and her destruction because that proves that she’s still her, still Scarlett.

I help her into one of my t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants. She’s swimming in them, but they’ll do for now. In another universe, I’d tease her for how tiny she is compared to me. But right now, that size difference doesn’t feel adorable, it feels like another negative.

She looks so fragile, standing there. Like a work of art that’s very foundations have been compromised. Any second those legs of hers are going to give out, and she won’t be able to hold herself up anymore.

I scoop her up, ignoring the gasp of shock and carry her to my bed, tucking her in before sitting down beside her. The rest will do her good. Sleep will do her good.

I stroke her hair, soothe her until her eyelids flutter closed and her breathing finally evens out.

Only once she’s asleep do I slip out of the room, grabbing my phone from my pocket. I need to get her help, proper help.

I dial the doctor’s number, pacing the hallway as it rings. But the answer I get is not what I want to hear.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Forster,” the receptionist says, her voice polite but firm. “The weather is too bad. We can’t get clearance for the helicopter.”

“She’s having a goddamned miscarriage.” I bellow down the phone. Do they really think I give a fuck if it’s raining or not?

She mutters about something I don’t catch, and then the doctor’s voice comes over the line.

“Mr. Forster.” He says. “The lady in question is not your spouse, we will not discuss any medical matters pertaining to her with yourself due to patient confidentiality.”

“Fuck patient confidentiality.” I snarl back. “She needs help. She needs to be seen by someone…”

“If the lady in question is pregnant and is suffering a miscarriage, then it would be a very early-stage pregnancy so the risks...”

“Excuse me?” If he was here right now, I’d have him up against the wall by his throat. How dare he be so disinterested in her pain, in her situation.

“She is tested.” He says, sounding flustered. “The medicine she is on is teratogenic and would prevent any healthy conception.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, Mr. Forster, she wasn’t pregnant two weeks ago.” He states, finally losing his cool. “Let the miscarriage run its course. If she is still bleeding in a few days, she may need something to sort it, but she is in no immediate risk.”

No immediate risk. The way he says those words, the way he’s so dismissive of her needs, makes me lose what little control I have left. I start yelling, ranting, demanding that he get his snivelling little arse here even if he has to get a shitty little boat and row himself across the channel.

Only, the bastard hangs up. I don’t know when. I was too lost in my anger to even hear the deadline line humming back at me.

The phone is still pressed to my ear while my heart is pounding with rage and helplessness.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself before going back into the bedroom.

I don’t want to scare her. I don’t want to do anything that might infringe on her peace.

Could he be telling the truth? Could it be okay? Just a simple case of letting nature fix itself? I don’t know. I don’t know shit about women’s bodies and stuff like this.

But he does know what’s at stake. He knows what Alexander’s end game is because he’s signed off on it, signed the paperwork, authorised the Power of Attorney and certified that she’s insane enough that there needs to be a conservatorship put in place.

He must be in line for a payout when this is all done and dusted.

Would he risk that now? Would he be so blasé about her care that he’d risk whatever fortune he’s in line to get?

I draw in a deep breath, clenching my fists. In the end there is nothing I can do. There is a storm outside, so no helicopters can get through. It’s the reason Alexander and my father have had to stay in the city.

I can give it until the morning. I can reassess then.

I creep back into my room, not wanting to wake her but as my eyes adjust to the dimness, I can see she’s sat up, staring at the ceiling with her knees huddled up.

She looks over at me as I enter, her gaze filled with so much sadness it makes my chest ache.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” I ask softly, sitting down on the bed beside her.

She shakes her head slightly. “Can’t, can’t sleep.”

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by that.

I climb into the bed behind her, wrapping my arm around her waist and pulling her back against my chest. I can feel her tense at first, then slowly, she relaxes into me, her body fitting perfectly against mine.

“It’s okay,” I murmur into her hair. “I’m here now. You can rest easy. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

She lets out a soft sigh, her hand coming up to rest on top of mine. I can feel her heartbeat, steady and strong beneath my palm, and I can pinpoint the exact moment she drifts off again.