Page 184 of Hymns of the Broken

My chest aches at the sound of my name. I crouch beside the tub, reaching for her hand, threading my fingers through hers. She’s cold—softer than I remember, like she could float away if I let go.

“You’re safe,” I say quietly, voice shaking with everything I can’t say. “I promise. No one’s gonna touch you again. Not while I’m breathing.”

Riot gives me a nod, something fierce and loyal in his eyes. He washes the soap from her hair, never breaking the rhythm. “We got her,” he says, like a vow.

I stare at Sawyer—her face, her lashes wet, the hollow under her eyes that wasn’t there before tonight. I want to destroy Blake all over again. But I squeeze her hand as gently as I can.

“Riot, do you want a break?” My voice is low, but he hears the intent.

He shakes his head, running his fingers gently down her back. “She needs both of us, man. Just be here.”

I exhale, feeling the weight of everything settle on my shoulders. I lean down and press a kiss to Sawyer’s forehead, breathing in the steam and the soft scent of her skin, trying to burn the memory into my bones.

“We’re not leaving you,” I promise. “Not for anything.”

She nods, a tremble running through her, and presses her face into Riot’s chest.

I kneel there, one hand in her hair, the other wrapped around her free hand. Riot keeps her anchored in the water; I keep her anchored to this world.

And for the first time in hours, I feel something close to hope.

RIOT

She’s boneless in my arms, head tucked under my chin, legs curled up between mine in the steaming water. I hold her like she’s glass, but, fuck, even shattered, she’s the strongest thing I’ve ever seen. Jasper is crouched beside the tub, fingers stroking through her hair, and for once, we’re not jealous of who’s holding her. We’re just here. All three of us, breathing the same air. Existing.

Sawyer’s got her eyes half-closed, fingers tangled with mine under the bubbles. The bruises on her wrists stand out starkly against her pale skin. Every time I see them, I want to break something—or someone—all over again. But I hold her tighter.

The water’s cooling.Herlips are turning a little blue, her shoulders shivering under the surface. I run my hand down her arm, voice gentle.

“Hey, baby. Let’s get you out. The bed’s warm. We can keep you close there. Both of us.”

She blinks up at me, and for a second, her gaze is full of that haunted fragility—but she nods.

Jasper’s already moving. He grabs the towel I set out, opens it wide. I help her stand, arms steadying her, and Jasper wraps her up, pulling her into his chest, drying her off slowly. His hands are gentle. Worshipful. I can see the way he looks at her, all the ugly rage and tenderness at war on his face.

I press a kiss to the crown of her head, then step back. “I’m gonna rinse off, sweetheart. You let Jasper take care of you for a minute.”

She clings to the towel, cheeks flushed, looking between us. “Don’t leave,” she whispers, voice small.

“I’m not,” I promise, squeezing her shoulder. “Just right here.”

I strip out of my boxers and step into the shower, hot water pounding over my back. But I keep my eyes on them—the way Jasper sits Sawyer on the closed toilet, tucks another towel around her shoulders, and plugs in the hairdryer.

He kneels in front of her, moving slow like every touch is a prayer. His hands are in her hair, combing out the tangles with a patience I never knew he had. The dryer whirs, soft and warm, and she closes her eyes, breathing a little easier now that we’re both in the room.

Steam fogs the mirror. The air is thick with the scent of Sawyer—soap, sweat, something raw and feminine and only hers. I lean against the tile, watching her face as Jasper works—her lips parting, eyes softening, tension melting from her shoulders with every slow drag of the brush.

Jasper glances up, catches me staring. For once, there’s no challenge in it—just understanding. We’re here for her. We’d do anything for her.

When Jasper finishes drying her hair, he sets the brush down and studies her like he’s cataloguing every wound and bruise. Then his eyes land on the angry, raw cut across her thigh and the deeper one on her hip—souvenirs from hell.

Without a word, he opens the cabinet and grabs the first-aid kit. He kneels in front of her, all muscle and ink, but his touch is careful as sin. “Hold still, Trouble,” he murmurs, voice rough with tenderness. He cleans the wounds, gently, even as she hisses through her teeth at the sting.

“Sorry,” Jasper whispers, pressing a kiss to the unbroken skin above her hip. “Almost done.”

She squeezes his shoulder, breath hitching, but lets him finish—bandaging her up with hands that shake a little, like the thought of her pain hurts him more than anything ever could.

I’m still watching from the shower, every instinct in me roaring to protect her, but knowing she’s safe—because Jasper’s taking care of her like she’s the only thing keeping him breathing.