Beautifully Broken

But then they’d just find her again. It’s too much of a risk.

I take solace that she’s alive.

“You’re awake,” I murmur, drawing her eyes to me.

“You’re the man…” She clears her throat again. “You helped me?” She frowns, and it looks like she’s in a world of pain. “Who are you?”

“Damian,” I give her the name I’ve been using for the past two years. I watch as a look of confusion flashes over her bruised face, then I say again, “My name is Damian Weston.”

I watch her closely, and then understanding crosses her features.

“Damian,” she whispers, testing the name on her bruised lips.

“You’re talking today. That’s very good.” I say as I get up from the chair I’ve been occupying in the corner of the room for the past sixteen hours. “It’s time to get you clean, so we can treat your wounds. I also got you painkillers and antibiotics.”

Cara just stares at me before I head into the bathroom to open the faucets in the shower. When I walk back into the bedroom, she’s struggling to sit up. She whimpers and slumps back to the bed, closing her eyes.

Seeing her struggle grips my heart in a tight fist.

“No sleeping,” I say. “You need to get cleaned up.”

I grab the painkillers and a glass of water and walk to her. “Lift your head, Cara,” I say, and her eyes fly open on my command.

She listens and lifts her head. I drop two tablets in her mouth and then move my hand behind her head to help her keep it up. I bring the glass to her lips, and she takes a few sluggish sips.

“It’s going to hurt when you shower, but if you don’t, you’ll get an infection, and we need to try and avoid that,” I say while placing the glass back on the table. “You’ll feel better afterward.”

When I throw the covers back, Cara’s body tenses, and the little color she has left drains from her face. She’s so scared I can almost taste her fear.

Fucking bastards.

It makes me wish I could kill those fuckers again.

Moving slower, so I don’t startle her, I gently take hold of her upper arms and pull her into a sitting position.

“There you go,” I murmur encouragingly. “Just shower so I can check your wounds, then you can rest again. Okay?” I pull her to her feet, and this time there’s more strength in her body. She sways on unsteady legs, and I quickly place an arm around her waist, but it has her flinching as she tries to yank away from me.

“I can walk. I’m fine,” she slurs through the pain.

I nod and step back, not wanting to make things harder for her.

Watching Cara make her way to the bathroom is difficult. I fist my hands at my sides, so I don’t give in to my need to help her.

CARA

There’s something about losing yourself, being hollowed out and stuffed full of relentless pain and degradation. All I have on is Damian’s jacket. It doesn’t look like he did anything but put me in bed. It must be because I smell like a sewer, and I look like shit.

I’m tired, not just physically. I’m shattered to the bone. It feels like my soul weighs a ton, dragging me under the wave of emptiness that keeps crashing over me.

I press my hand to the wall and use it to keep my balance. When I reach the bathroom, steam is billowing from inside. On trembling legs, I walk to the basin so I can use it to keep myself up. There’s a little square mirror hanging above it, but it’s misted over.

“This is how it’s going to work,” Damian says from behind me. “You’re going to shower. Once you’re in clean clothes, you’ll eat. After that, I’ll look at your wounds, and then you can sleep. This is all you have to do today.”

I wonder if this man has any feelings. He sounds as dead as I feel.

“Who are you?” I ask, wanting at least one of my million questions answered.

“I’m just someone who cleans up other people’s fuck-ups,” he answers without any emotion.

“Did my uncle sent you? Tom Smith?” I ask, not able to think of another reason Damian would’ve saved me.

He hesitates for a moment before answering, “Yes.”

Uncle Tom didn’t leave me?

He sent someone for me?

Thank God.

I cover my mouth with a trembling hand to smother the sob. Swallowing hard, I force the tears back down.

“I have two rules,” Damian says, and he takes a step closer to me.

Instantly my muscles tighten, sending a wave of pain through my body. He might have saved me, but I feel far from comfortable around him.

“Don’t look at yourself in the mirror, and don’t lock the door.” There’s a clear note of warning in his voice.

Nodding, I glance at the faded pattern on the tiles to avoid looking at him. The tiles are peach and brown, and the colors make my stomach churn. Then my eyes jump to the faded towels that have bleach stains on them.