Page 12 of Double Down

That’s the only color in her skin, though. Beneath the burn, she’s pale. Hollowed out.

Voices rise and fall, snapping at each other beyond the door, but she doesn't flinch. We can't hear the specifics, but the anger, the hostility, the panic carry through the wood.

Phoenix doesn't move. Not even when Atticus yells beyond the door. Atticus never raises his voice—he sees it as a loss of control, a weakness, instead of the strength he wears like a shield. If he's shouting, we're well and truly fucked.

I know that Phoenix knows that, too. Still, she doesn't react.

"Are you remembering to breathe?" I ask.

Nothing.

"Let’s go." I move her legs off mine and stand, offering my hand. She doesn't take it, so I take her wrist. She doesn't flinch away, at least—I take it as a win. I pull her to her feet, guide her up, then lift her into my arms, cradling her against my chest.

She just exists in my arms, like she's not sure she wants to anymore. She’s deadweight from the neck down with a thousand-yard stare from the neck up. I miss the feeling of her leaning into my embrace and welcoming my touch, but I don’t think she’s capable of that right now.

"We're going to take a shower," I say.

She doesn't respond. She stares past my shoulder as I carry her into my room, straight to the en suite, further away from the dining room and what's lying on that table.

I don't stop until we're inside and the door's locked. No other Titans. No plans. No shouting. All of that stays on the other side. In here, it's just her, me, and the gaping hole in my chest I can't fix.

Inside, I set her on the marble sink counter and take her face in my palms. Her gaze flicks to mine warily, then past me, until she finally lands her sight on the floor.

"Angel," I say.

No answer.

"Angel, I know you can hear me. It's okay. I don't know how yet, but we'll make this better. There isn't a single thing in this world I won't do to protect you. To keep you." I press my forehead to hers and hold her tighter.

She keeps staring at the tile, but after a moment she blinks. Just once.

It’s enough. It has to be. Because the alternative is that I’m losing her even now.

Phoenix hasn't spoken. She hasn't cried. She hasn't done anything.

This brilliant, vibrant woman—who's owned my soul since she was a teenager brave enough to slap a senator—is shattering in my care. The spark that always smiles for me and argues with Con and sasses Mav is out, and everything is a little dimmer for it.

It wasn't the neglect from her father, or the way we came for her when she broke Conrad's heart, or even the violence from those men that terrorized her. None of that broke her.

We did this.

I can't see it any other way. She agreed to be ours, to be kept by us—all of us—and then she breaks. We didn't say the words, but the promise to protect her lived in our chests, and we failed.

We don't deserve her. I don't deserve her. I should walk away—but she doesn't deserve that either. Maybe it kills us both, but I refuse to be another person who abandons her.

"Let's get you clean, Angel," I whisper against her temple. Turning my head slightly, I drop a kiss to her forehead.

I set her on her feet long enough to turn on the shower. I considered a bath before I brought her in here, but no. She needs to watch the sweat, the tears, the night and the torment of all of it wash down the drain. She needs visible proof that what touched her skin doesn't get to stay.

I need to kill every person responsible for this. I need to watch the life fade from their eyes as their blood runs dry. I need these things like I need to pull air into my lungs.

Later, though.

My vengeance comes later.

Angel comes first.

When the water is hot—just shy of scalding, the way she likes—I return to her and rest my palm on her shoulder. Her skin is cool and clammy.