Page 60 of Stolen Vows

“You’re bleeding.A lot.You said this has happened before?”I ask.

She curls into a tighter ball and shakes as emotions barrel through her, but she answers through her tears.

“Menstrual blood.Just leave me alone.I—”

“This isn’t normal, little one.You need help,” I interrupt.

“Don’t touch me.”

Her panic-laced tone stops me with my hand outstretched.

It hurts to see her lying on the floor in pain, but I already triggered her once and don’t want to do so again.I almost killed her last time.

“Okay, I won’t touch you, but I can’t leave you like this.Let me help.Capisci?”

Another wave of pain hits her.She groans and mentally checks out for a moment before returning to me with fresh sweat on her brow.

“What do you need, Valentina?”I prompt.

“Knife,” she whispers.

I blink in confusion before I register her hand tangled in her hair and her other clenched in a fist around nothing.

Realizing she’s too distressed to think beyond her mental anguish, I rise, lean over her, and take the knife her father stabbed me in the back with from under her pillow.

I kneel, peel open her fingers, and slip the hilt inside.She closes her fist and relaxes for the briefest of moments before lifting her tear-clumped lashes.

The urge to lift her off the floor or pull her into my arms rides me hard, but I press my palms to the floor and lean into her field of view.

“What else do you need?Medicine?Water?Ice pack?Heating pad?”

She tilts her head side to side in a lazy shake of denial, never lifting it off the floor, but even that seems to take too much energy.

“Just leave me alone.I’ll clean up when—”

“I don’t give a fuck about the mess, Valentina.You’re hurting.How do I make it stop?”I demand.

“You don’t.”

“Like fuck I don’t.What have you tried before?”

Her fingers tighten around the hilt and fear and disgust fill her expression.

“Dannazione,I don’t know what I said wrong,paperotta, but I’m sorry.If I promise not to touch you, will you let me try to help?”

I don’t care how pathetic I sound.She looks on the verge of death.

Another tear drips off the bridge of her nose.

Impatience roars through me, but I grit my teeth and wait for her to process my words as she works through the pain.

“Yes,” she whispers.

Relief spears through me even though I’m still at a loss about how to help her.

I rise, yank a blanket off the bed, and drape it over her as I ask, “What hurts, other than your stomach?”

“Head.Joints.Everything.”