Page 183 of Hymns of the Broken

Riot seems to understand. He gives my hand a gentle squeeze, then smooths my hair from my face. “Okay, baby. Let’s do a bath,” he says softly, like it’s the only option in the world.

He moves around the room, gathering a towel and my softest pajamas from the dresser, then heads to the bathroom to start the water. I hear the faucet running; the sound is oddly soothing. He keeps the door open so I can see him, see he’s not leaving, not for a second.

When the tub is full and the steam curls through the air, Riot comes back to me, offering a hand. I take it, but my whole body shakes. He’s careful, gentle, helping me sit on the edge of the tub. The sight of the water, the echo of the shower at the cabin, sends a chill through me. I freeze, breath stuck in my throat.

Riot notices right away. He crouches down in front of me, eyes searching mine. “Do you want me to get in with you?” he asks.

I nod almost frantically. “Please. I—I don’t want to be alone. Not in the water.”

His expression softens. “I’ve got you. Always.”

He helps me undress, never rushing, never making me feel small. He strips down to his boxers and eases into the tub first, then pulls me carefully into his lap, cradling me in the warm water. His arms are solid around me, a shield against the world. I tuck my head against his chest, breathing in the safe, familiar scent of him.

Riot justholds me there, rubbing slow circles on my back, humming under his breath. “You’re home now, Hellcat,” he murmurs. “You’re safe. I’m not going anywhere.”

Riot’s arms are warm and solid around me, anchoring me in the water. I’m barely holding it together, shivering even in the heat.

He brushes a damp strand of hair off my cheek, searching my eyes. “You want me to wash you?” His voice is so gentle, nothing like the wild Riot everyone else knows.

“Yes, please.”

He grabs the bottle of shampoo, squeezing a dollop into his palm before massaging it into my scalp. His fingers are careful, slow—making sure not to tug too hard, letting me lean back against his chest as he works through the tangles. It’s more than just washing—it’s grounding. Safe.

He tilts my head, rinsing the suds with a cup, warm water cascading down my back.

“You’re doing such a good job, baby,” he whispers, planting a kiss on my temple.

I close my eyes, trying not to think about the last time hands washed me. I force myself to stay here—in this moment, with Riot—where nothing hurts except the memories.

He moves to my shoulders next, lathering up the washcloth, sliding it gently over my arms, across my chest, down my stomach. “Let me take care of you,” he murmurs, his voice a rough comfort. “Just breathe.”

His hands are reverent, never venturing where I don’t want them, only holding, only healing. I melt into him, letting the tears come, silent and warm. Riot doesn’t say a word. He keeps washing me, humming a low tune, cradling me closer as I let go.

JASPER

The basement is freezing, dark, and it stinks of old blood from fights and concrete. Blake is still out cold—chained to a steel support beam, wrists zip-tied for good measure. His face is bruised, blood dried at his temple. He looks small here. Powerless. Exactly how he left Sawyer feeling.

Silas stands guard by the door, arms folded, a silent mountain of menace.

I glance at Blake with nothing but contempt. “We’re not coming back down until tomorrow,” I hiss. “Sawyer needs us. Needs Riot, needs me. This piece of shit can wait.”

Silas nods, gaze icy. “We’ve got it handled. Nobody’s touching him. Not until you’re ready.”

Jace, Ash, and Micah are just behind Silas, ready to leave Blake in the dark. I linger for one more heartbeat, staring at Blake’s limp form, then I turn back and head upstairs.

The door to the basement closes behind me with a solid thud, and for a second, all I hear is the echo of my heartbeat in the stairwell. I leave Blake in the dark, chained up and alone, exactly where he belongs. Silas and the others promised they’d watch him, but I don’t give a damn what happens down there tonight. Sawyer is all that matters now.

My hands are still shaking—anger, adrenaline, the taste of violence thick on my tongue. But none of it means shit ifshe’s not okay.

I climb the stairs, taking them two at a time, desperate to get back to her. I can hear the water running as I round the corner—soft voices, the faintest ripple of a laugh—Riot’s voice. Sawyer’s barely there, but it’s enough to crack something open inside me.

I pause in the doorway. The scene stops me cold.

Sawyer’s in the bathtub, curled up in Riot’s lap. She looks small, almost fragile, hair wet and tangled, Riot’s arms holding her like she’s the only thing keeping him afloat. He’s murmuring to her, fingers gently combing suds through her hair, his mouth at her ear—soft words I can’t quite hear, but I know their meaning.

Sawyer’s eyes flicker open when she senses me. She blinks, lips parted, and for a second, I see the terror she’s trying so damn hard to swallow.

“Jasper…”