Behind me I hear Taylor breathe a sigh of relief.
And it’s echoed in mine.
Oh, thank God.
Slowly I move toward her and pick up the gun, slipping it into my jacket pocket.
Now that she’s no longer an immediate threat, I need to get Ana out of the apartment and away from her. Deep down I know I will never forgive Leila for this. I know she’s unwell—broken, even. But to threaten Ana?
Unforgivable.
I stand over Leila, putting myself between her and Ana. Still not taking my eyes off Leila as she kneels with quiet grace on the floor.
“Anastasia, go with Taylor,” I say.
“Ethan?” she whispers, and there’s a tremor in her voice.
“Downstairs,” I inform her.
Taylor is waiting for Ana, who doesn’t move.
Please, Ana. Go.
“Anastasia,” I prompt.
Go.
She remains rooted to the floor.
I step beside Leila—and still Ana won’t move. “For the love of God, Anastasia, will you do as you’re told for once in your life and go!” Our eyes lock and I implore her to leave. I can’t do this with her here. I don’t know how stable Leila is; she needs help, and she might hurt Ana.
I try to convey this to Ana with my beseeching look.
But she’s ashen. She’s in shock.
Shit. She’s had a fright, Grey. She can’t move.
“Taylor. Take Miss Steele downstairs. Now.”
Taylor nods and makes a move to Ana.
“Why?” Ana whispers.
“Go. Back to the apartment. I need to be alone with Leila.”
Please. I need you out of harm’s way.
She looks from me to Leila.
Ana. Go. Please. I need to take care of this problem.
“Miss Steele. Ana.” Taylor holds his hand out to Anastasia.
“Taylor,” I urge. Without hesitation, he scoops Ana into his arms and leaves the apartment.
Thank fuck.
I let out a deep breath and caress Leila’s filthy, matted hair as the door to the apartment closes.
We are on our own.
I step back. “Get up.”
Awkwardly, Leila rises to her feet, but her eyes remain on the floor.
“Look at me,” I whisper.
Slowly, she lifts her head, and her pain is visible on her face. Tears spring to her eyes and start to trickle down her cheeks.
“Oh, Leila,” I whisper, and I embrace her.
Fuck.
The smell.
She stinks of poverty and neglect and homelessness.
And I’m back in a small, badly lit apartment above a cheap liquor store in Detroit.
She smells of him.
His boots.
His unwashed body.
His squalor.
Saliva pools in my mouth and I gag. Once. It’s hard to bear.
Hell.
But she doesn’t notice. I hold her as she weeps and weeps and weeps, snot-sobbing all over my jacket.
I hold her.
Trying not to retch.
Trying to banish the stench.
A stench so achingly familiar. And so unwelcome.
“Hush,” I whisper. “Hush.”
When she’s gasping for air and her body is racked with dry sobs, I release her. “You need a bath.”
Taking her hand, I lead her to Kate’s bedroom and the ensuite. It’s roomy like Ana said. There’s a shower, a bath, and a selection of expensive toiletries on display. I shut the door and I’m tempted to lock it; I don’t want her to run. But she stands, meek and quiet, as she shudders with each dry sob. “It’s okay,” I murmur. “I’m here.”
I turn on the faucet and hot water buckets into the spacious bath. I squirt some bath oil into the cascade, and soon the stifling fragrance of lilies is overcoming Leila’s stench.
She begins to shiver.
“Do you want a bath?” I ask.
She looks down at the foaming suds and then at me. She nods.
“Can I take off your coat?”
She nods once more. And, using only the tips of my fingers, I peel it from her body. It’s beyond salvation. It’ll need burning.
Beneath, her clothes hang off her. She’s wearing a grubby pink blouse and a pair of grungy slacks of an indeterminate color. They’re also beyond rescue. Around her wrist is a tattered, soiled bandage.
“These clothes, they need to come off. Okay?”
She nods.
“Arms up.”
Dutifully she complies, and I pull off her blouse and try not to register my shock at her appearance. She’s emaciated, all jutting bones and pointed angles, a sharp contrast to the Leila of old. It’s sickening.
This is my fault; I should have found her earlier.
I tug down her slacks.
“Step out.” I hold her hand.
She does, and I add her slacks to the pile of rags.
She’s shaking.
“Hey. It’s okay. We’re going to get you some help. Okay?”
She nods but remains impassive.
I take her hand and undo the bandage. I think it should have been changed; the smell is putrid. I retch but don’t vomit. The scar on her wrist is livid but miraculously looks clean. I discard the bandage and dressing.
“You’ll need to take those off.” I’m referring to her grubby underwear. She looks at me. “No. You do it,” I say and turn around to give her a modicum of privacy. I hear her move, a scraping of her flats on the bathroom floor, and when she stops I turn around and she’s naked.