Page 88 of Heimlock

“You don’t have to say it,” she says softly.

I grunt, trying so hard to make my tongue work. Just say the fucking words. Jaw quivering, I try one more time.

All I can rasp out is, “I was born.”

There. I said it. I exhale harshly, relieved to be free of that temporarily.

My fingers restart their massaging, and another tiny boulder lifts from my shoulders. Kyrielle turns her head again, and I see a tear roll down her cheek. Without thinking, I wipe it away, ignoring the ones falling down mine.

“That’s awful, Trinte.”

“Mmhmm.” I clear my throat. “So yeah, he liked to remind me of that in different ways. One of the ways was not letting me eat or keeping the food locked up. Now, I struggle to throw away food, even if it’s expired.” My hands fall from her silky wet locks. “Time to rinse it out.”

I help her wash out the conditioner. When it’s all gone, I turn off the shower and grab a fresh towel. “I’m going to dry your arms off first, okay?”

She nods and I silently dry her off, unable to look her in the eye. I’m flayed, with each flapping layer of my soul laid bare on icicles. It’s difficult to think about the ever-present shame because her stare is unwavering. I can fucking feel it.

It makes me want to scream.

Carefully wrapping her in the towel, I help her step out of the shower. Opening the bathroom door, I huff out a laugh at the amount of steam that billows out. Her bedroom door is closed, but it’s a safe bet that’s where the clothes are.

I’m reaching for the handle when she says, “Trinte?”

Pausing, I glance back at her. Her beautiful face is drawn tight with fear and worry. Whatever’s behind this door, she doesn’t want me to see. I step back, but she shakes her head emphatically. “I-It’s fine.” She swallows thickly. “I guess we’re crawling into each other’s graves now.”

I snort, giving a wry smile. “Unfortunately, it looks like both of us live in graveyards.”

I turn the knob.

Her room is more bare than a prison cell. The window has bars over it, with wind chimes on the bottom. Against one wall is an empty bedframe. Confused, I look around, then spot the mattress crammed into the closet. All of her clothes are hanging above it. Five deadbolts line the edge of the closet door.

A single photo with a younger version of Kyrielle and a man hangs outside the closet door.

My heart breaks for ‌both of us. Her trauma is alive and well inside her, as it is for me. It just presents differently, and though she shares herself with people, Kyrielle also keeps herself in a locked coffin of fear every single night.

It’s vital that I don’t have any form of negative reaction. “What would you like to wear?”

Kyrielle’s lower lip trembles as she wraps arms around her torso. “Something comfortable. I don’t care.”

“Got it.” I cross the room in a couple of strides to peer into the closet. It’s more roomy than it looks, and the clothes are well organized. Spotting some fleece pants and a soft-looking T-shirt, I pull those off hangers. Peering around, I find a small set of drawers. I open them until I find the underwear. Pulling out a pair, I close the drawer and walk back to her.

“Do these work?”

She grimaces. “How am I putting this shirt on?”

“Fuck,” I mutter, eyeing the damn thing. It’s velcroed for fliers, but her wing is still too crooked for it to sit comfortably or accidentally tug on the bruised flesh. “You … might have to go topless for a few days.”

Kyrielle sighs heavily, dropping her head. “Just my luck.”

“Do you have anything that could go over your breasts?” I ask, trying to recall if there was anything in the drawer. She shakes her head. I deflate, more worried for her than anything. “We can just make sure you have a blanket nearby at all times?”

“Yeah,” she says glumly.

I take a step closer. “Hey.” She looks up with a miserable expression. Offering what I hope is a comforting expression, I say, “It’ll be okay. I promise to be a gentleman the entire time.”

Kyrielle smiles weakly, but I can tell she’s still worried. All I can do is prove it with actions. Holding out the underwear, I ask, “Do you want help to put these on?”

She finally snaps, letting out a loud growl of frustration and throws up her good arm. “This is so fucking annoying already, and it’s been only an hour. I need help putting on underwear, from a man I fucked in a bathroom nine months ago. Who helped me commit murder last night. And now, he’s going to help me put on underwear because I broke my fucking wing.”