Page 64

T he monitors beeped like countdown timers to hell. Each pulse tracking whether she lived or died, green lines jumping across screens—proof her heart beat, not proof she'd wake. Ever wake again.

Ever look at me again.

Dried gore had matted her chestnut hair into dark, twisted clumps that stuck to the pillow. Dirt streaked her face, mixing with tears that dried while I wasn't there to wipe them away. The stench of that place clung to her skin like a second layer of filth that antiseptic couldn't touch.

I'd been too late. Not just to save her. To stop the moment she stopped being soft. They stole her and left me with a corpse that still breathed.

She was on her back in the hospital bed while I laid on my side right next to her, refusing to relinquish any form of contact with her. If it wasn’t for the annoying fucking monitors I would think that I was holding her too tight. But I didn’t fucking care.

A soft knock broke the beeping. Tyrant's massive frame filled the doorway, but his usual swagger was gone. Behind him, a small figure hovered in the shadows—barely visible, like she was trying to disappear into his bulk.

"Can we come see her?"

I didn't answer. Didn't move. Just kept staring at Oakley's face.

Tyrant stepped inside anyway, and the girl followed. She moved like a ghost, feet barely making sound on the linoleum. Keeping her distance from me, pressing herself against the far wall. When she reached the foot of the bed, she stopped. Stared at Oakley with wide eyes, hands trembling.

"She w-was so brave," the girl whispered, voice barely audible. Her skeletal fingers twisted in the hem of her dress. "When he c-came for me, she..." The words caught in her throat, tears spilling down porcelain cheeks. "She saved me."

The girl—Callista—was watching me now, waiting for something. A reaction. Understanding. Permission to continue. But she wouldn't look directly at me. Eyes darting to the floor, the wall, anywhere but my face.

"She k-killed somebody to protect me."

My sweet Oakley killed someone?

"He was going to..." Her voice cracked, stuttered. She tried again, wrapping thin arms around herself. "She s-saved me. She m-made me promise," Callista whispered, stepping closer to the bed but staying as far from me as possible. Her skeletal fingers reached out, almost touching Oakley's hand, then pulled back like she'd been burned. "When they came for us. She said she already had her h-happily ever after. That s-she wanted me to have mine."

My hold tightened on Oakley. Why the fuck was I shaking?

"S-S told me t-to find you." Callista's eyes flicked to mine for just a second before darting away again. "She knew you'd c-come for her."

Tyrant shifted by the door. "We should go."

But his attention shifted to Callista. She was pressed against the wall, trembling like she expected a blow. Something changed in Tyrant's face when he looked at her—an expression I'd never seen on him before. Not the easy confidence he wore with everyone else. Something careful. Reverent.

His massive frame could crush her without effort, but when he spoke, his voice gentled. "Hey. You did good getting out of there."

Callista's sapphire eyes darted to him, then away. "I w-was so scared. But she made me p-promise..."

"And you kept that promise." Tyrant's ink-covered hand started to reach out, then stopped halfway. He pulled it back, fingers curling into a fist before he tried again—slower this time, telegraphing every movement like she was made of glass. When she didn't flinch, he barely touched her shoulder, the contact feather-light.

I watched him looking at her. The way his shoulders softened. The way he stood like he was guarding something precious. The way he was afraid to touch her the wrong way.

For the first time since entering, Callista's shoulders dropped slightly. "She s-said you would help me."

"We will." Tyrant’s voice carried absolute conviction. "You're safe now."

Callista nodded quickly, relief flooding her face. She looked back at Oakley one more time, voice barely a whisper. "Th-thank you. For everything."

Then they were gone, and I was alone with the beeping machines again.

I memorized every mark on Oakley's skin—this one from a fist, that one from something worse. Each bruise is a signature from men I should have killed slower. The crude stitches around her mouth twisted her lips into a fucked up copy of my mask.

Hours passed. Victoria brought fresh clothes with tears in her eyes.

I never left her side.

Eventually, I forced myself to move. I pushed myself up from the chair beside her bed, legs stiff from sitting motionless for hours. Three steps took me across the small room to Hex's bathroom, where I filled a basin with water. Hot tap fully open, cold halfway. I'd watched her do this enough to learn what temperature she liked her water.

Steam rose from the surface when I returned, ghosting in the cool air. I grabbed clean washcloths from Hex's supply cabinet.

I wanted her to wake up clean. She liked baths.

I dipped the cloth into water and began with her face. The first stroke revealed how much they destroyed her. Beneath the grime and dried gore, her skin was paper-white, translucent like she was already half-ghost. Dark circles shadowed her eyes so deep they looked like bruises. Her lips were cracked, split in places where they hit her—where Callista had to tear out those blue threads while she was unconscious.

The light blue cloth darkened immediately—dirt, tears, sweat, the evidence of that cabin. All of it mixing together into something that shouldn't exist on her skin. She'd always been so clean. Flour-dusted from baking, maybe. Smelling like vanilla and cinnamon. Not this. Never this.

Her forehead first. I wiped away streaks where sweat mixed with what they spilled, where they dragged her face-down across splintered wooden planks. Each gentle stroke revealed more damage. A scrape here. A cut there. Evidence of every moment I wasn't there to protect her.

Her temples were next, careful around swelling that made her look like a stranger. Someone beat her here. Fists connecting with bone, snapping her head back. I could see it happening, over and over, while I was miles away thinking she left me, destroying out bakery.

The delicate shell of her ear where dark stains had gathered. Not hers—too dark, too thick. Someone else's. The man she killed. It was under her fingernails too, crusted in the lines of her palms. Evidence of what they forced her to become.

I rinsed the cloth, watching the water turn a musty pink. Then rust-colored. Then darker.

Her cheekbones. The bridge of her nose where more dried gore clung. Some of it flaked off when I touched her earlier, leaving behind pale skin marked with tiny cuts. Like they dragged her face across gravel.

Each stroke erased their touch from her skin and replaced it with mine. Their hands hurt but mine healed. At least I told myself that. But looking at her now—really seeing the damage—I wondered if my hands had ever healed anything. If I was capable of anything but destruction.

When I reached her neck, I almost quit breathing.

Fingerprints bloomed across her throat like purple flowers. Bruises shaped exactly like a hand. Someone choked her. Squeezed until she couldn't breathe, until her vision went black, until she thought she was going to die.

The cloth disintegrated in my grip, fabric giving way under pressure I didn't know I was applying.

I grabbed another one. Forced my hands steady. But I could see it so clearly now—some bastard's fingers wrapped around her throat, watching her gasp for air. Her small hands clawing at his wrist. The terror in her eyes as consciousness faded.

My sweet Oakley, who never hurt anything, fought for her fucking life. I cleaned around the bruises with touches so gentle they barely contacted. Like I could brush away the memory of what happened.

Her shoulders came next. More bruises here. The skin was mottled purple and yellow, some so fresh they were still swollen. Others are already fading to green at the edges.

I washed down her arms, careful around the IV lines. Her wrists were raw where they tied her to that concrete block. Rope burns that went deep, down to pink flesh. She fought against the restraints until her skin gave way. Never stopped trying to escape, even when it meant tearing herself apart.

That was my Oakley. Stronger than anyone knew. Braver than she believed.

When I reached her hands, I had to stop. The missing finger hit me fresh every time, like seeing it for the first time. But worse than the missing finger was what remained. Her palms were stained dark with dried gore. Under her nails, between her fingers, crusted in every line and crease. The man she killed painted her hands with his life.

I cleaned each finger separately, working the cloth between them, under her nails, across her palms. The water in the basin grows darker with each rinse, but I kept working. Washing away the evidence of what they forced her to do. What they made her become.

Her hands created beautiful things. Wedding cakes and birthday treats. Pastries that melted on your tongue. The kind of magic that rose from ruin. That sweetened even the broken. These hands were never meant to kill.

But they did. Because that was what her survival demanded. Because protecting Callista mattered more than staying pure.

The cloth tore again in my grip when I thought about it. Her beating a man's skull open with a piece of rotting wood.

I grabbed a fresh cloth and continued. Moved to her chest, her stomach, washing away every trace of that place.

But she didn't break. She killed instead. My fucking sweet, perfect wife. She was still beautiful. More beautiful, maybe, because she survived. Because she was stronger than anyone knew.

But she'd never be the same.

"What are you doing?"

Law's voice cut through from the doorway. He stood there holding a clean shirt, knuckles bone-white against the fabric. His daughter lay broken before us both, and he couldn't even look directly at her.

"She doesn't like blood."

I didn’t pay attention to him, barely listening when he told me. "She used to hate baths as a little girl," he said, voice scraped raw. "Would scream like we were murdering her. Until Claudia started adding those bubble bath bombs. Then we couldn't get her out."

The cloth hung suspended in my fingers. Pink droplets fell back into the basin like tears.

"She likes lavender," Law added quietly.

"I know." Every bottle on her bathroom shelf—lavender body wash, rose shampoo, honey conditioner she splurged on despite the cost. The eucalyptus oil she dabbed behind her ears when stress headaches took hold.

I turned to Law, seeing his throat work, Adam's apple bobbing once. He dropped his gaze, shoulders curving inward beneath his leather cut. He turned toward the door, footsteps heavy on the linoleum as he walked out. The door clicked shut behind him with a finality that echoed against the sterile walls.

I returned to my work. The reality hit fresh each time I reached the gap where her ring finger used to be.

When I was finished, I sat back and looked at her. Clean now, but not unmarked. The bruises remained. The scars around her mouth. The missing finger. The rope burns. Evidence of everything they did to her written on her skin in languages I wish I couldn't read.

They took more than flesh. They took her future, her ability to work the way she'd always dreamed. The ring I'd slid onto that finger on our wedding day—when she trembled and wouldn't meet my eyes—was gone. Probably mounted as some sick trophy where we'd never reach it.

I looked down at the left band on my hand.

If her body has to bear their marks, mine would match. If she had to learn to live with pieces missing, so would I.

I rose from the chair beside her bed, legs stiff from sitting motionless. Three steps took me across the small room to Hex's tool cabinet against the far wall. The metal doors opened with a soft click, revealing rows of neatly organized instruments. Scalpels, forceps, bone saws—all laid out in perfect order. I bypassed the surgical tools, finding instead a heavy cleaver hanging on the back wall.

I splayed my left hand against the wall, away from where she could see if she woke. The white paint felt cool against my palm as I spread my fingers wide, isolating my ring finger—the same one they took from her.

The cleaver rises. Hovers. Then comes down.I felt nothing.

If her body had to bear their marks, mine would match. If she had to learn to live with pieces missing, so would I.

The weight of the cleaver felt right in my hand. Familiar. I'd used blades like this before, though never on myself. The edge caught the overhead light, reflecting a thin line of brightness across the sterile metal.

Dark warmth welled from the ragged stump, soaking into the towel I pressed against the wound. Thick droplets hit the infirmary floor in steady rhythm. My silicone wedding band tumbled end over end before disappearing into the darkness under Hex's cabinet.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway, measured and unhurried. Hex appeared in the doorway, pausing as he took in the scene. His gaze moved from the cleaver lying on the metal counter to my severed finger on the floor, then followed the scattered drops across the sterile tile to where I stood clutching the stained towel.

"Did you cut your fucking finger off?"

I didn't answer.

“Fuckin’ psycho.” Hex crossed the room and kicked my severed finger toward the trash can. The quiet thunk of flesh hitting plastic echoed around us. He moved to his medical bag, hands steady as he pulled out his tools and arranged them on the counter.

I eased myself onto the examination table, the towel growing heavier with each passing second. Wet warmth seeped through the cotton, dripping onto the floor in spreading spots.

"I'm gonna cauterize it so your dumbass doesn’t die." He rummaged through drawers, pulling out instruments. Hex returned with the cauterizing iron, the metal tip already glowing white-hot. The metal touched what was left. The world stayed exactly the same. My vision remained clear. Tissue sizzled and popped under the heat. I watched the process with the same interest I'd give any other task.

Hex pulled the iron away as his phone rang. He answered with an irritated flick of his thumb, returning to my wound. "You’re on speaker. Behave."

"Fuck you, Hex." A woman's voice crackled through the line, sharp and defiant. "You were supposed to come get me thirty minutes ago!"

"I'll be there soon."

A bitter laugh from the other end. "Well, I'm gonna hitchhike ? —"

"Do it and you won't like what I do to you, Jordyn." Hex's eyes never left his work, but his jaw tightened visibly. Jordyn is Joslyn’s twin sister who has a major drug problem. What the hell was Hex doing with her?

"Like what?" She challenged, voice sharp with defiance. "Keep me locked up in your secret cabin ? —"

"You better fucking stay there." He hung up, eyes finding mine. "You. Heard. Nothing."

I wouldn't give a fuck if he killed her.

He wound the bandage around my hand. The pressure helped contain what was left. When he'd finished, he stepped back and began cleaning his tools, wiping each one carefully before returning it to his bag. "Don't bleed on my fucking floor again."

The medical bag snapped shut. He turned and walked out, leaving me alone with the lingering smell of burnt flesh and the steady thump where part of me used to be.

I approached the narrow hospital bed where Oakley lay beneath a tangle of wires and tubes. The monitors traced erratic patterns of her vitals across their screens, each beep cutting through the antiseptic quietness. Her left hand rested atop the starched white sheets, bandaged stump where her ring finger once belonged exposed to the harsh fluorescent light.

She hadn't moved since they brought her here. The sedatives kept her locked in whatever dreams survived trauma.

Careful not to disturb the IV line snaking from her right arm, I eased myself onto the mattress beside her. The metal frame protested under my weight with a soft creak. Space was limited—barely enough for one person, let alone my frame—but I managed to position myself along her right side, mindful of the oxygen sensor clipped to her index finger.

My arm slid beneath her shoulders, gathering her against my chest. Her head settled naturally into the hollow of my throat, her breath warm against my collar. The monitors adjusted to our new configuration, wires stretching but holding as she unconsciously curved into my warmth.

Hours dissolved in the growing dusk. The room dimmed except for the glow of medical equipment and a single lamp in the corner casting everything in amber. I dozed fitfully in our shared space, my bandaged left hand resting over hers where it lay across my ribs. Our missing fingers align, gaps matching with surgical precision.

When I pressed our wounded hands together, nerve endings registered nothing—the absence complete. But deeper recognition stirred, the perfect symmetry of our mutual damage creating something whole from broken parts.

A sharp gasp jerked me from half-sleep. Oakley's chest convulsed as she struggled for air.

Her eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide with panic. She tried to sit up, fighting against gravity and disorientation while the monitors shrieked their electronic alarm. Wires pulled taut as she clawed at the sheets, at anything within reach.

"I can't—" Her gaze darted wildly around the sterile room. The exact moment arrived when memory abandoned her, when the present dissolved into past horrors. She tore at the tubes threading her arms, desperate to escape invisible restraints.

I tightened my hold without restricting her movement. "Look at me. Oakley, look at me."

Her breathing turned ragged, each inhale shorter than the last. Sweat beaded across her forehead despite the room's chill, skin taking on a gray pallor that made the bruises stand out like fresh ink.

"Oakley." I kept my voice level, unwavering. "You're safe. You're with me."

Her eyes found mine, relief flickering across her features for one heartbeat—then her body recoiled. Just a fraction. Just enough to register rejection before shame flooded her expression.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, tears already forming. "I'm so sorry."

Her breathing deteriorated further. Each inhale sounded like she was drowning in open air.

Every instinct demanded I retreat, create distance, accept that perhaps I truly was the monster she should fear most. Instead, I remained motionless against her side. "It's okay." The lie tasted metallic on my tongue. Nothing approached okay if she couldn't bear my touch now.

"Be afraid of everyone else," I leaned closer, my voice dropping to barely audible. "But never me." I forced gentleness when everything inside demanded violence against whatever put this terror in her eyes. "What do you see?"

Her gaze skittered across the room—monitors, IV stand, the door Hex recently exited—before settling on my face. "Y-you," she stammered, voice fracturing. "You're here. You're real." Her hands reached for my wrists with desperate urgency, nails biting into skin like she was afraid I'd vanish.

I pushed up my sleeves, exposing the raised scars spelling "Summer" and "Oakley" across my forearms—permanent declarations carved with the same blade I used to end lives. Taking her trembling hand, I pressed her fingertips to the letters.

"Trace them," I commanded softly. "Feel each letter."

Her fingers followed the jagged lines of her name, her touch feather-light initially, then firmer as tactile sensation grounded her. The monitors slowed fractionally as her focus narrowed to the task, the proof that she mattered enough to be written in scars.

"Good. What do you hear?"

She flincheed at the blaring equipment, sounds that likely echoed alarms from that compound. "Too much. Everything's too loud. The machines—they're screaming."

Like she screamed when they severed her finger.

"Focus on my voice. Only my voice. What do you smell?"

Her nostrils flared as she struggled to comply. "Antiseptic. Lake water." Her breath hitched. "You. Pine and ash."

She still recognized my scent. Still found comfort in the combination of leather and violence that marked me. Even after everything, some part of her drew strength from it.

"That's right. What do you taste?"

"Fear," she whispered, raw honesty bleeding through. Then, after a pause that stretched endlessly, "Metal. Copper in my mouth."

From stitches that tore. From biting her tongue when they struck her. From tasting another man's life as it leaked away.

I reached for the ice chips that Hex left behind. "Here."

She accepted one, the cold seeming to ground her further. Sharp sensation provided concrete focus, drawing her from the memory's spiral. The monitors began quieting as her heart rate gradually stabilized.

Something unexpected happened—the ghost of a smile flickered at her mouth's corner. But freshly-healed skin pulled tight, resisting movement. She gasped, pain flashing across her features as tender scars stretched. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth, eyes wide with shock and humiliation.

"Don't," I whispered, gently pulling her hand away. "Don't hide from me."

The scars have puckered into lines that would forever alter her smile's shape. My mother's final cruelty. Even Oakley's joy carried pain's mark now.

I touched her mouth's corner gently, tracing the raised line with my thumb. She didn't flinch this time.

"What do you feel?" I asked, taking her left hand in mine, our matching wounds aligning.

Her eyes widened when she noticed my bandaged hand. Reality of her own mutilation hit completely—not vague awareness something was wrong, but concrete visual evidence of what was stolen. Then her gaze found my hand, the freshly cauterized stump where my ring finger had been. Understanding dawned, followed by horror that cracked her voice.

"Why?" Tears welled and spilled over, tracking paths down her bruised cheeks. "Why would you do that to yourself?"

"Because you shouldn't have to be broken alone."

"You," she whispered, voice breaking completely. "I only feel you."

Those four words carved something open inside me that I didn't know existed. Something locked away since birth, buried under years of violence and emptiness. I'd always been hollow—emptied by CIPA, by Mother’s neglect, by brutality that shaped me. But Oakley's simple statement created space where only absence lived.

With careful movements, mindful of the tubes and wires keeping her alive, I shifted us both until she fit perfectly against my chest. Her small frame curved into mine like she was designed to rest there. Like even broken, we still aligned.

"They took it," she murmured against my skin, breath warm and uneven against my throat. "They took my finger. The ring..." Fresh tears soaked through my shirt as horror settled over her. "I can't—how will I work? How will I hold things properly? How will I?—"

"You'll adapt," I said, voice rough with certainty. "You're stronger than you know. Smarter than they gave you credit for."

"But Sweet Summer's—my dream—" A sob cut her off, the sound gutting me more effectively than any blade.

I pressed my lips to her temple, tasting salt and fear. "Your dream doesn't die because they took a piece of you."

She pulled back just enough to study my hand, fresh warmth seeping through gauze. "You didn't have to do this. You didn't have to hurt yourself for me."

"Yes, I did." The words emerged harsher than intended. "If the world wants to mark you, it marks me too. If you have to learn to live with pieces missing, so do I."

She stared at our joined hands, at the symmetry of our wounds. "You're insane."

"Probably." I wiped her tears away with my thumb, careful of bruises painting her skin. "But I'm yours."

No greater truth had ever passed my lips. I was not capable of normal emotion, normal love, normal humanity. But I was hers—devoted to her with the same focus that made me deadly to everyone else. She was the only light in a world I'd painted dark.

She collapsed against me then, sobs wracking her body like physical blows. Her fingers clutched my shirt, my arms, anything within reach—reassuring herself I was real, that she was safe, that someone came for her when it mattered.

"I killed him," she confessed into the darkness, voice muffled against my chest. "I beat him until he stopped moving. Until his skull cracked open. There was so much..." A violent shudder ran through her entire body. "It got in my mouth. In my hair. Under my fingernails. I can still taste it."

Her whole body convulsed. She scratched at her scalp like she could claw it out, like memory was something she could shed if she tore hard enough.

My arms tightened around her protectively. The act contradicted everything she was, everything she believed about herself and the world.

"You protected Callista," I reminded her, stroking her hair with careful fingers. "You did what you had to do."

"I'm d-disgusting," Her voice cracked, I could barely understand her. "I'm d-dirty now.”

“You fucking surived.” For me. For us.

"I-I've never hurt a-anyone before," she said, voice small and fractured. "I n-never wanted t-to. I never thought I–"

She broke down, heavy sobs racking her body as I continued the gentle strokes through her tangled hair. "I know."

We fell into silence, our breathing gradually synchronizing as her sobs faded to occasional hiccups. Outside the window, rain began to fall, drumming against glass in steady patterns that counterpointed the quieter beeping of the monitors.

"I-I knew…." Her voice dropped to barely audible. "I-I knew you were coming for m-me."

My fingers continued their comforting trail. "I’ll always find my way back home.”

Her fingers traced the outline of my bandaged hand, feather-light over the gauze. I ran my thumb over the place her finger used to be, as if tracing its absence could somehow make it less permanent. Her ring finger was gone forever, along with the symbol of our bond that I forced on her months ago.

But looking at our joined hands now, at the matching voids where whole fingers used to be, I realized something. We didn't need those rings anymore. She cried herself to sleep in my arms, tears soaking through my shirt to the skin beneath. Even in sleep, her hands searched for the edges of me, like I was already fading. Like she was afraid I'd disappear if she let go.

"Don't leave," she whispered, half-gone to exhaustion.

I crushed her to me. I was not capable of existing anywhere she wasn't. There was no V without Oakley. No purpose beyond her protection. No direction except toward whatever kept her safe.

I watched the monitors count her heartbeats—each one a gift. Each one proof we'd made it through darkness. Each one a second chance I didn't deserve but would spend the rest of my life earning.

Not whole. Not unscathed. But alive. Together.

I intertwinde our left hands, the gap between our fingers creating new patterns against white sheets.

Her breath brushed against my neck, shallow but alive.

The heartbeat she gave me thumping steadily–the ghost I used to be finally find home.

All it took to feel alive again was dying beside her.