I wasn’t a woman brought up in a world as chattel to her male relatives, who could be sold off to the highest bidder, made to marry a man many years her senior only to be held down in bed and then die in horrific pain during childbirth, in an age where one in every three women succumbed to that fate.
Present day in my present place, all things said and done, was a charmed time and place compared to most other periods in history.
It blessed most of us with a veil of ignorance to the ugliest parts of the world.
I’d always known I had been soft. Even compared to fellow softies I had grown up with.
I wouldn’t let someone crush a bug. I only listened to music about love and light and personal growth. I couldn’t tolerate scary or violent movies.
Gemma has a weak stomach was how my peers would describe me.
Gemma has a soft heart was how my mother put it.
Both were likely true.
I didn’t need to see violence to know I wasn’t built to handle it, that I wasn’t equipped with what was necessary to get through it without it driving an axe through my psyche, cracking me in two.
I wasn’t aware of being carried out of there, of being brought back to Lincoln’s.
I was vaguely aware of his voice, soothing, sweet, though the words seemed lost to me, as though I suddenly wasn’t able to understand them, as though he was speaking a foreign language.
I could feel his arms around me, squeezing me tight, his lips on my forehead, temples, cheeks.
But my brain was just assaulted with the image of David’s brutal murder over and over and over, a hideous loop of video. And I couldn’t find the off button.
“Gemmy, baby girl,” another voice called, somehow getting through, words stringing together in a way that I seemed capable of understanding. “Hey, honey, come on. Open your eyes. Look at me.”
“Maybe she needs to go to the hospital.” That was my sister. Reasonable. Calm, even. But there was a hint of hysteria underneath it.
“We can’t exactly bring her to the hospital and have her tell them that she witnessed a murder. At least not until Quin gets back to us.”
Nia.
That was Nia.
“Fuck the job, and protecting some rich asshole,” Jules spat, voice chilling. “My sister’s sanity is more important.”
“If you’re going to argue, feel free to take it somewhere else,” my mother suggested. “Gem, come on. It’s alright. You’re alright. Talk to us about it.”
“She’s shivering,” Nia observed.
“I ran her a bath,” another voice joined us. The only male in the room. Lincoln. “She likes baths,” he added, leaving out how he knew that.
“That sounds like a good idea,” my mother agreed, lifting my weighted limbs, pulling off my bracelets, my shoes, carefully removing my earrings from my lobes. “Thank God she isn’t a modest girl,” she added, tugging at my skirt, then my top, leaving me in a simple nude matching set. “Lincoln–” she said, voice a little hesitant.
“I got her,” he assured her. I felt him move in behind me, scooping me, turning my body toward his, cradling me to his chest.
“Nia, can you go make her some tea?” my mom asked. “Jules, find her something to wear.”
With that, we seemed to move as a trio into Lincoln’s bathroom.
The warm water seemed to part around me, then curling close, enveloped me in a warm embrace that seemed to leech the aches right out of my tensed muscles.
“I will go get an update from Qui–” Lincoln started, pulling his arm out of the water.
It was right then that I seemed capable of commanding my body to do what my mind, what my soul, so badly needed.
My hand shot out, grabbing his around the wrist, holding tight as my eyes opened.
I saw Lincoln’s face first.
The tight jaw with a ticking muscle.
The worry flooding his brown eyes.
When his gaze slid to my mother, so did mine, finding her watching the interaction with what I could only call a knowing look.
“Lincoln, why don’t you keep an eye on Gemmy? I think I better go keep an eye on those other two,” she added, giving me a soft smile. “He’ll take good care of you, baby. I’ll be right downstairs if you need me.”
With that, she turned to walk out, closing the door behind her as she went.
“Baby…” Lincoln started, voice cracking. He dropped down to his knees, one hand reaching out, thumb stroking down my cheek. “I’m so fucking sorry. You shouldn’t have seen that. I should have…”
His voice trailed off as my arm pulled, dragging him forward.
“Okay. Alright,” he agreed, getting my intention, going with it, kicking out of his shoes. My hand dropped, allowing him to slip out of his pants and shirt, then climb into the tub behind me, pulling me back onto his chest, wrapping his arms around me. “I should have been able to protect you from that,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to my temple. “I should have put my foot down about you not going. I… I’m sorry you have to live with that image in your head now,” he added.