Page 5 of Lethal Truths

Creed’s expression lights up as his warm brown eyes flare with some kind of depraved hunger. “Absolutely fucking perfect for me,” he mutters quietly as he twists open the water and offers it to me.

Not a yes, but I think it’s as good as I’ll get from him right now. Something tells me Creed won’t deny me of much right now. Especially violence.

Taking the water, I toss back the pills and then drink them down. I watch as Creed stands and goes back to the desk. He messes with another pill box, this one looking like a week organizer. I expect him to bring me something else, maybe antibiotics to fight infection, but he doesn’t. Creed’s shoulders are tight as he takes them himself, washing them down with another bottle of water.

A part of me wants to ask about those pills, but I have an idea of what they could be. His defensiveness at the party the other night when he thought I was calling him crazy rings through my mind, and I have to wonder how many others he’s heard that shit from. Where the label even came from to begin with, and why it seemed to bother him on a soul-deep level. Though, it’s not really my business, is it?

If I’m going to keep my heart — and secrets — guarded for now, then I can’t expect him to reveal it all to me right away, either. Baby steps. But hopefully one day, I’ll find out all the ins and outs of who this man truly is.

“Creed?”

He turns with a tired smile, resting his ass on the desk behind him. “Yeah?”

Closing my eyes, I mumble, “Thank you for helping me last night.”

I’m halfway to a deep sleep, but Creed’s faint promise still reaches me. “Always. Like I said, you’re mine to protect now.”

4

Prudence

Several days later, once I’m not so overwhelmed by pain, Creed tells me we’re having a movie night. I’ve been sleeping most of my time away, and much to my surprise, Creed has been a tender and thoughtful host. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but the fact that he’s given me some space to heal without trying anything, even a soft kiss, has allowed me to let my walls down a bit. So long as I’m inside his room, with his warm brown eyes alert and his body coiled and ready to fight whoever comes in the door, I actually feel safe.

I can’t say the same for the outside world. Even the thought of going out past the door has my nerves prickling uncomfortably. Creed’s understanding of that, though, and even seems to like having me here. I haven’t left his room except for trips to the bathroom, and he escorts me to make sure I don’t run into Griffin or Asher. I don’t want to see either of them right now. Not until I’ve regained my strength, mentally and physically.

My limbs aren’t so stiff today, my wounds are healing nicely — according to Creed, who’s not a doctor — and though I’m still having nightmares about the night in the forest regularly, I think the worst of it has passed. My spirits are starting to look up a bit. A movie night might do me some good.

While Creed runs downstairs to grab the pizza from the delivery driver, I work up the courage to do something that’s been eating at me for days. I need to look at my body. I need to see what’s been done to me.

The cuts still pull tightly as I push myself out of bed and stand. The deepest of wounds, though there are only a few, still really fucking hurt, but the more shallow ones don’t bother me at all anymore. I pop open the buttons of Creed’s white shirt he let me borrow as I near the full-length mirror on the back of his door. With each inch of skin revealed, my breath catches more and more.

I shrug the fabric off my shoulders and let it hang limply in the crook of my elbows, and then I take a good, hard look at myself. It’s worse than I could have imagined, and a broken sob gets trapped in my throat.

Even after almost a week of healing, my body looks like I’ve been run over by a bus. Dark bruises have bloomed up and down my legs and there’s a decidedly hand-shaped one that curls around my throat. My torso is littered with slashes, the worst of which are still covered by gauze, but it doesn’t stop me from picturing the entire scene.

My stomach has light, healing scrapes on almost every inch, leaving nothing behind, no trace of free skin untouched. There are some long ones that run down the right side of my ribs and another that starts between my breasts and drags down to my belly button.

My boobs are discolored, though not as badly as my legs. Still, seeing the yellowing bruises there yanks me right back to that night when those guys had grabbed me and squeezed my breasts so hard I wanted to puke.

And my face… It’s hard to force my eyes away from the travesty that is my body and pull them up to my face, and when I do, I finally lose the battle and a heavy tear slips free.

My bottom lip is swollen and tender, though the deep cut from days ago has knitted together. The right side of my face — beneath my eye, my cheekbone, my temple — still looks raw and puffy, and the mottled bruising doesn’t help.

I look like death reheated. Like the devil chewed me up and spit me out and then laughed at the sight of me. My breath gets caught on a hiccup as my cheeks are washed with my tainted sorrow.

I’m so lost in learning the new, fractured me that I don’t hear footsteps approaching from the other side of the door until it’s swinging open. I stagger back, hurrying to pull the shirt back over myself. My fingers are numb as I fumble with a few buttons to keep the front closed.

Creed is in front of me a moment later, one hand holding a pizza box while the other pushes the door closed again. His face is etched in concern, his eyes round and full of sympathy.

“Ember, baby, what’s wrong?” he rasps as he takes a step and closes the distance between us. He cups my cheek with his free hand, swiping his thumb beneath my eye and frowning at the wetness he collects. “Did someone bother you? Asher?” he adds, his voice rough like shards of glass.

Just hearing Asher’s name makes me want to cower back, but the one time he tried to check on me — or that’s what he claimed, but I don’t believe it — Creed refused to let him in the room. He hasn’t come knocking again. And Griffin… it enrages me how much his absence hurts. He hasn’t come around a single time, and that only cements his lack of care for me.

I shake my head, backing away and carrying myself back to Creed’s bed. I don’t say anything until I’m sinking down onto the soft mattress, my knees tucked up to my chest and the black comforter pulled up. “What are we watching?” I croak, trying to shove the images of my battered body out of my head.

Creed tilts his head a bit, studying me and then looking back to the spot where he found me standing. It doesn’t take long for the pieces to click, and he releases a heavy sigh as he stares at the mirror on the back of his door. Turning to face me again, he sets the food on the edge of his desk and stalks across the room to his bed. He stands by the edge, watching me as his jaw ticks. “I wish you would have waited for me,” he mumbles.

“Why?” I blink at him, trying to imagine how much worse I looked that first night when he patched me up. “You already know—“

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