Page 51 of Restitution

“He’s upstairs,” Aria says, white as a ghost. “Please go and see him. He… he’s not in a good place.”

Her eyes drop to Chris’s mangled face, his fingerless hands, the slashes all over his body, as if Kade and Tobias had gone nuts and started throwing blades around blindly.

He has holes in his knees, and a foot is lying off to the side.

With this much blood loss, I don’t think Chris will survive.His chest is rising and falling rapidly. How is he still alive?

The table full of weapons is overturned, and Tobias sits in the corner, nursing his hand with a bloody cloth.

“What happened?” I ask him, nodding to his hand.

Tobias uncovers the small gash on his palm. “I tried to make him stop. He lost himself, and we needed to ground him.”

“He hurt you?”

“Not on purpose. Go see him,” he tells me. “He’s not armed.”

My brows knit together as I glance back at Aria. She looks pale.

“I didn’t want this for my son. I have no idea what to do,” she says, stitching the holes where Chris’s fingers once were.

“I’ll go and see him,” I tell her, glancing once more at Chris then walking up the creaky steps.

Barry and two of the guards are now standing around the dining table with an iPad, papers and a laptop, discussing Bernadette’s whereabouts and ways to get her here without her own team of suited-up bodyguards behind her.

They want to kill her and her husband.

Cassie’s body was discovered. We’ll hear from her mother soon. I’m certain of it.

Was all this blood on the floor when I came down? The lights were off, but they’re on now. My foot slips on it, and Barry’s head snaps up. “There’s a trail going all the way up to the rooms,” he says, as if it’s normal. “Watch your step.”

There’s a puddle of vomit at the bottom of the stairs and crimson stains on the banister, as if he’s grabbed it while heaving.

I step over it and stop when I see a crack in the plaster on the wall. An obvious punch hole, dots of blood surrounding it.

The ruby-red boot prints take me up the rest of the stairs;there’s the outline of a hand against the wall, as if he was trying to keep himself upright. Down the hallway to the right, across from my room, the door is closed, but I can hear him.

He’s not crying, but he sounds like he’s in pain, as if he’s gritting his teeth and trying to hold back a gut-wrenching sob that’s threatening to strangle him.

I push the door open slowly, quietly, to see Kade in the corner of the room, his head bowed and between his legs, rocking back and forth with blood soaking him. His hands fist at his hair, gripping it hard enough that I know it must hurt.

“Kade,” I say as I close the door behind me, stepping into the middle of the room. “Kade.”

He flinches but doesn’t stop rocking back and forth, tugging his dark, bloodstained strands harder.

I say his name again, as gently as I possibly can. I lower myself in front of him. My fingers curl around his wrists, and he freezes his rocking, but his eyes stay down.

“Thank you,” I say, settling between his parted legs, still holding his wrists to stop him from yanking at his hair. “Chris can never touch me again. He won’t even be able tolookat me again.”

For minutes, maybe hours, we stay like this. Me in front of him, holding him carefully, letting him hear my soft voice as I praise him for sticking up for me. He doesn’t give me a response, or lift his eyes to me, but I know he’s listening.

His fingers spasm uncontrollably – his body tenses, and he braces himself.

I let go of his wrists and move closer, sitting on my haunches as I take his cheeks in my palms and caress under his eyes with my thumbs. Some of the blood on his face is still wet, some parts dried.

He trembles, twitching like he’s close to seizing, and he’s so, so cold. He shivers.

“Look at me, Kade,” I say softly. “Please look at me and tell me you’re okay.”