Page 33 of Home Brewed (The Perfect Cup #1)

Beck

T he speed I drive back to Hazel’s apartment with is not legal in any province. I answered the call expecting her to say something teasing or ask a question she forgot, but that one phrase chilled me to the bone.

I park illegally in front of her building and anxiously tap my foot, waiting to be buzzed up.

When it finally unlocks, I take the stairs three at a time, racing up to see whatever had put that pure terror in Hazel’s voice.

I get to the landing in front of her door, pausing, ice running through my veins at the scene.

She’s frozen, standing right inside her entrance with her back to me, door still swung open, shoes kicked to the side, silently staring into her empty apartment. It takes less than a second to see why.

Everything is absolutely destroyed.

I slowly walk in behind her, leaving my shoes on. I smooth my hands down her arms, startling her.

“Sorry, sugar, it’s just me.” She turns in my arms and stares up at me, her big dark eyes looking terrified and heartbroken.

I brush her hair away from her face, having no idea what to do in a situation this fucked up, no idea what she needs.

Still, I will do whatever it takes, whatever she needs.

“Have you gone inside to see the extent of the damage?” I ask, and she shakes her head no, which provides a sense of relief seeing as there are pieces of glass and ceramic, and dirt scattered all over the floor.

At the same time, it makes me worried. We have no idea if we’re in the apartment alone.

“I’m going to take a look, is that okay?

” She still doesn’t speak as she leans into my chest, and I hold her tightly, wishing that was all she needed to make this better.

I gently detach myself from her, closing the front door behind me to give us some privacy.

I slowly walk through the apartment, assessing the damage.

Every one of her cupboards are open, dishes spilling out, most laying on the floor cracked or in pieces.

Her chairs are toppled, and it looks like someone took a hammer to both them and the dining table.

More and more debris crunches under my shoes the further I go in, and I find myself feeling very glad that Hazel hasn’t seen this yet.

Her living room is a disaster. Her couch and pillows all have huge slashes down them like someone used a knife. Her plants are all shattered on the ground, their roots jumbled up with her destroyed books. I look more closely at the colourful items strewn about, mixed in with everything.

It’s her goddamn underwear. All of it looks mangled, some having received the same treatment as the couch, others are simply crumpled up and rubbed into the dirt. Her bedroom tells the same story. Destroyed clothing, slashed mattress and sheets. Next to nothing is salvageable.

I snoop in her closet for a bag and begin stuffing in any piece of clothing that’s not completely destroyed, any documents that look mildly important and are still legible.

I know she always keeps a book in her nightstand.

When I look for it, I can see that the small spot where she hid her vibrator is empty and I get a sick feeling in my stomach.

I survey the floor until I see it. A small piece of silicone, now flattened like it had been stomped or smashed.

The level of violation makes me want to be sick, and my gut roils.

I quickly grab any toiletries from the bathroom that survived and go back to the entrance. Hazel hasn’t moved an inch from her spot just inside the door, frozen in shock, her usually tan skin clammy and pale .

I hadn’t seen it in my hurry earlier, but now I can clearly see the carvings on the back of the door and the word they spell out.

WHORE.

I slowly approach her again, trying to think of a way to get out of the apartment without her seeing it. Despite the fact that I’m directly in front of her, she looks right through me, unseeing.

“Sugar.” I brush her hair back. It probably fell back into her face as she alternates between staring into space and her shoes. “Baby, you there?” Concern grows in my chest, threatening to bury me. I need to keep it together. I need to take care of her right now. I can rage about everything later.

“I should call the police.” I can barely hear her when she finally speaks, her voice fracturing.

“If that’s what you want, we can do that right now, baby,” I say reassuringly. I pull out my phone and report the break in. I know it will be a while before the cops show up, so I take Hazel down to my car with me to put her things down and give her a breather.

As I close the car door, I hear her sniffle behind me. The cool air seems to have shocked her out of her state and her eyes are watery. None of the cheery girl I dropped off minutes ago to be seen. All of her joy has been sucked into a vacuum.

“How could he do this?” she asks in a broken voice, yanking painfully on my heartstrings. She doesn’t have to name him for me to know who she’s talking about. “What did I do wrong?” Tremors shake her frame, the adrenaline of her panic finally wearing off.

“No,” I say, taking her hands and warming them in my own. “That is the one thing you don’t get to do right now, blame yourself. You didn’t make anyone do this. This wasn’t your fault.” She won’t look in my eye, stuck in her own head, unable to hear me.

“Hazel,” I say, getting her attention. “Repeat after me: I didn’t do this.”

“I didn’t do this.” I can barely hear her .

“This isn’t my fault,” I prompt.

“This isn’t my fault.” A fat, lonely tear tracks down her face and drips off her chin.

“I did nothing to deserve this.”

“I did nothing to deserve this,” her voice breaks on the last words, and she collapses into me. I hold her together as she falls apart, rubbing her back and murmuring comforting words that I’m sure she can’t hear through the emotions bombarding her.

“I’ve got you. I’m here.”

It takes a lot longer than I’d have liked, but I finally see flashing lights pull around the corner and stop next to us.

The interaction is perfunctory. The cop takes her statement and some photos, encouraging me to do the same to show the insurance company.

He writes his report, gives me the report number, and leaves, all rather quickly.

Hazel waits in the car for most of it. The cop, assuming I’m the boyfriend, which I sort of am, gave me all the information she would need so I could relay it to her when she was a bit less shell shocked.

When I get back to her, she doesn’t react.

I close the car door, making sure the heat is blowing directly on her hands and give her a once over.

I can still see tear tracks on her face, even though she’s stopped sobbing, and defeat weighs on her, her body folding in on itself. Her phone is in her hands, and I can see notifications coming in from Nessa and Stella, whom she had probably told what had happened.

An incoming call from Nessa startles her out of her reverie, and she looks down at the device with dread.

I hold out my hand silently and she hands it over.

Nessa is loud and barely lets me get a word in to tell her who answered the phone.

I give her a quick summary of what happened, and I tell her Hazel will be staying with me tonight.

Now that, Hazel responds to .

“You don’t need to take care of me, you know,” she says in a biting tone.

“I can handle this myself, get a hotel room or something.” I fight down the offended feeling inside me, mentally reminding myself of why she’s so stubbornly independent, even if it hurts my feelings just a little.

I’m going to be here for her whether she wants me to or not.

“I know you don’t need me. I know you have options. Please consider, Hazel, that you’ve been through something traumatic. I can drop you off at a hotel if you’d like, but I’d really like for you to be somewhere safe.”

“Hotels are safe.”

“They can be, but this way I can be here if you need anything at all.”

“I won’t.”

“That’s fine. You don’t have to need anything at all. Can I still be there for you? Will you let me?” She softens, resting her head on the headrest, eyes closed as she gives a shuddering breath.

“Are you sure I can’t stay with Nessa?” she whimpers, looking like she’s going to shatter at any moment.

“She has a one-bedroom apartment, and Stella has a bachelor,” I grimace, “If you really don’t want to stay with me, we can find you somewhere. I just hate the thought of you being alone tonight.” The last part comes out as a whisper.

She contemplates for a moment, steadying her breaths despite her hiccups, and folds her hands in her lap.

“I’ll stay with you,” she says, resigned, looking out the window.

“Okay, pretty girl, let’s get you home.” I move my car from the curb and begin to make my way back home. I leave the radio off, allowing us to soak in our silence.

We’re almost back to my place when I almost don’t hear her whispered “I’m sorry.” Her voice is so much smaller than I’ve ever heard it.

“Nothing to be sorry for, I promise.” She finally turns to me for the first time since driving away. She evaluates what I said for a moment, then reaches across the console to curl her fingers around the hand I have resting on my leg .

I grip her back firmly.

When we pull up to the house, I grab her bag for her and help usher her into the house. She stands, sockless, in my entrance, with her arms crossed, looking unsure of herself. She looks out of place despite having been here mere hours ago.

I help unzip her jacket, slowly pushing it off of her shoulders as I ask, “Do you want to sleep in my room with me, or in a guestroom?” She looks puzzled, “You went home tonight to get some space, and you’ve had a really shitty few hours.

If you still want space, you can have it, but I know I’ll sleep much better if I get to have you in my arms and know you’re okay,” I admit.

“Can I sleep with you?” She steps forward and tentatively wraps her arms around my middle, burying her face in my chest.

“Of course, sugar, anything you want,” I let her snuggle into me, breathing in her scent, letting go of the tension in my body by reminding myself that she’s here. She wasn’t home during the invasion. She’s okay.

“Why don’t I tuck you in, then I’ll make you some tea? It might help you sleep,” I offer, and she simply allows me to lead her up the stairs to my room, grabbing her the same t-shirt and fresh boxers to wear. “Do you want to shower?”

“Maybe tomorrow,” she says, “I don’t think my legs can hold me up anymore,” she attempts to joke. I kiss her forehead.

“Tomorrow is just fine. I’ll be right back.

” I head down to the kitchen and once I hear her go into the bathroom, my emotional dam breaks.

A sob wracks its way through my chest, and I wish I could destroy something silently, put my anger and frustration somewhere.

She had almost been hurt. She is hurting.

The woman I care for is in my room because her home was attacked, and I can’t reconcile that someone who knew this woman could do anything like this to her.

Hazel is kind, and sweet, and caring. Nothing she did could ever deserve this .

Right now, I need to get my emotions under control and make my girl some tea. That is what I can do right now to make things better. Whether she wants to admit it or not, she needs someone to take care of her, and that someone is going to be me.

Once the tea is boiled, I collect myself and go quietly back up the stairs with the mugs and some water bottles.

Just as I suspect, Hazel is already passed out, her hand hanging off the bed, tangled in blonde fur.

Fish is snoozing next to her on the floor, providing what I’m sure he thinks is security from whatever is making his humans so stressed.

I place the tea and water next to her anyway, in case she wakes up.

If it weren’t for the events of tonight, I would have taken a picture.

She looks much calmer, and the small connection the two of them have warms my insides.

She fits in here so perfectly. It’s then that I know I want to keep her.

I want to keep her safe, keep her in my home, keep her in my bed.

I want to keep her happy, healthy, thriving.

I’m in love with Hazel Nucci.

Pondering that revelation, I tuck myself into bed behind her, placing my hand on her waist. Sensing me in her sleep, she rolls over to snuggle up under my arm and puts her hand on my chest. Right over top of my heart, which now belongs to her.