Page 74 of Saved from Deception

“Oh, Charlie, your cast—”

“Please, Ry.” Turning to him, still gripping his hand, I say somewhat desperately, “I need to get clean.”

“I know he didn’t—he never—” My throat clicks, words sticking, bile rising. “I feel dirty, even so. That he even touched me, that I was there—”

“Ah, love—” Rylan’s face crumples. He blinks, swallowing hard. “Of course. I’ll make it work. Of course you can take a shower.”

And he does make it work. He covers my cast with a plastic bag, sealing it with tape wrapped around my arm. Frowning at his creation, he says, “I’ll order one of those cast covers for you. Today.”

Then he leads me into the bathroom and gently peels off the scrubs the hospital gave me to wear. As he kneels at my feet to pull off the little booties, he hesitates for a moment, his shoulders shaking.

When Rylan stands back up, his eyes are damp.

Mouth dragged down, he whispers, “I’m so sorry, Charlie. So damn sorry.”

In the shower, he washes me carefully, every brush of the washcloth feather-light. We showered together before, but this is more intimate than any other time, even though there’s nothing sexual about it.

Expression tortured, Rylan looks at each of my bruises; there are dozens of them scattered up my legs and torso, my forearms, my chin, and my cheek. Then he kisses each one, so softly it doesn’t hurt—it feels healing.

Rylan dries me off; I could do it myself, but honestly, I don’t want to. All the years of being independent, but right now, I just want to let him take care of me. Just for a little while, until everything isn’t so sharp and painful.

I’m like a rag doll—he dresses me in one of his big Army T-shirts, sits me on the bed to brush my hair, and rummages through my drawers to find a pair of panties. Once I’m all dressed, he quickly throws on some shorts and crouches on the floor in front of me, brushing my damp hair from my face.

“Was the shower okay? Can I get you something to eat? What about another pain pill? Ice for your cheek? Or do you just want to sleep?” He’s so earnest, so worried, so caring—my heart swells, warms, chasing away more of the chill inside me.

I take his hand again. “Will you just lay with me?”

Rylan frowns a little. “But your pain. You should eat something.”

“I’ll do those later,” I promise him. “Right now, I just need to feel you next to me.”

All his features soften, some of the stress fading. “I’d like nothing more.”

I wake with a gasp, heart racing, something terrible chasing me.

The nightmare fades quickly, just faint wisps of images floating away. Only the feelings remain—terror, dread, and despair.

“Charlie. Are you okay?”

Rylan is sitting in bed beside me, sheets puddled around his waist, looking at me in alarm. One big hand is on my shoulder, shaking me gently.

Am I okay? As the last of the nightmare disappears, I take stock.

I’m in bed. At Rylan’s apartment.

No. Our apartment.

I’m sore. My stomach is gnawing at itself. My mouth is a desert.

But Rylan is here. I’m safe.

“I’m alright,” I start, pushing myself up. But I forget that I have a cast on my wrist and use the wrong arm, yelping at the sudden pain.

He sweeps an arm around me, gently pulling me up. “Oh, your wrist.”

“I forgot about it,” I explain, and take a few deep breaths until the initial surge of pain subsides. “But it’s okay. I don’t think I hurt it again.”

Forest green eyes inspect me, narrowing as they sweep across my face. “You need a pain pill. And something to eat.”

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