Page 84 of Torment
“You’re not going to win, Ash. You should know better.”
“Fine,” Ashlynn sighs.
Parker kisses Ashlynn’s cheek–the one that isn’t bruised–and stands from the couch. She and Maverick stop in front of me.
“I’ll stay with her whenever you need me to, just let me know,” Parker whispers.
I nod. She smiles at me warmly, giving my bicep a reassuring squeeze. Then they’re gone.
Walking over to the couch, Ashlynn’s gaze lands on me and her eyes begin to well with unshed tears.
“I know, doll. It’s okay. You’re safe now,” I say gently. “Here, let’s get you comfortable so you can rest. I’ll be right back.”
Walking into the bedroom, I grab her pillow off the bed, a pair of my sweatpants and a t-shirt. When I get back to her, she’s trying to stand up, but struggling. Dropping everything in my arms on the chaise part of the couch, I reach out to her. She takes my hands and I help her slowly stand.
“Let’s get you out of this.” My fingers pinch the fabric of her shirt. I slowly pull it up over her head, careful of her staples, and remove her bra.
The bruising on her ribs matches her cheek. My fingers reach out and ghost over the angry purple marks along her ribs, then the spot where her tracker is. My heart lurches into my throat, and I lower myself to my knees at her feet. I press my forehead gently to her stomach, squeezing my eyes shut.
For a second all I see is her limp in my arms. Her body slumped in a chair. Tristan wheeling her out of the hospital. Her face when she saw me at the rest stop.
My jaw clenches.
She shouldn’t have to hurt like this.
Reaching up, my thumb brushes lightly over the tracker beneath her skin, a cold reminder of how close I came to losing her. Never again. Not as long as I’m breathing.
Ashlynn shifts slightly, wincing as she reaches for the oversized shirt. I stand and help guide the fabric carefully over her shoulders. Then I help her out of her jeans and into the sweatpants.
After I lay out her pillow on the chaise, she carefully lowers herself back onto the couch and lays down. I cover her back up and take the seat next to her head. Her crystal blue eyes meet mine. They’re duller, filled with sadness.
“Stay with me,” she whispers softly, a tear slipping down her cheek.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell her and take her hand, rubbing her knuckles with my thumb.
After a few minutes of silence, she looks back up at me.
“Where did they take Andy?” she asks quietly.
“Andy?”
“Or Tristan. I’ve always called him Andy. He hates his first name.”
My eyebrows knit.
“Andy. From the gala?”
She nods.
A rage I haven't felt before washes over me. Not only did she know him, she told me at the gala he was the only one who treated her like a person after she was adopted. She clearly trusted him, and knowing that she did, he took advantage of it.
The question is why.
“He’s alive,” I tell her.
Her sleepy, sad eyes search mine
“For now.”
