Page 117 of Manacled Hearts

She nods, the gesture still strained with the shuddering of her body. I reach for her upper arm, stroking slowly up and down. She’s cold. Like we never even touched for the last hour.

“I’m going to come closer, and hold you to me, okay?”

She takes a few seconds longer to respond now, but then she nods again. I slide closer, but turn my back to the bed, and lean over, wrapping my arms around her. She’s stiff even through the shaking but doesn’t pull away. So I gather her closer and when she doesn’t protest I slide my arm under her knee and lift her to my lap, holding her against my chest as I lean against the bed. With slow, soothing motions I stroke her arm and back, and as her body relaxes, her breathing sounds louder.

I don’t speak for a long time because no words should force this situation. I’ll be what she needs—warmth, safety, a shoulder to cry on. I’ll be anything she wants me to for however long she needs me. I never had the chance the last time I could have been needed like this, when Hanna was dying on that cold concrete floor, and I was there too late. This is it, my second chance. I will not fuck this up.

Her body has softened, her shaking stops, and even her breathing has leveled. But she stays on my lap, sinking just a little deeper into me with every minute that passes.

“I’m sorry…” she whispers.

“Don’t you dare apologize for this.” I think my tone came through a bit too harsh.

She nods against my shoulder anyway.

“It was the hair,” she confirms.

“Can I ask why?”

She breathes in deeply and swallows it before she answers. “It’s how they caught me. How they held me, controlled me. It was used against me… viciously. I should have told you I have a thing for…”

“I know now, don’t worry. I will never do it again.”

She shifts and raises her head to meet my eyes. “Maybe someday,” she whispers, sweet hope in her voice.

I smile, because how could I not. She’s the strongest person I know, because surviving and moving on with life after what she experienced could break most people.

“Maybe, but only if you do it for yourself, not me. Not anyone else.”

She nods, then looks down, a tinge of embarrassment curling her eyebrows.

A thought crosses my mind.

“Is this why you cut your hair?” I ask.

She nods but doesn’t meet my eyes this time around. Instead, she lays her head back down on my shoulder, and settles more comfortably into me.

“I would have chopped it all off if I didn’t hate short hair on me. This bob haircut felt like a good medium… even if someone caught it, it would be harder to hold it for long, since it can’t be wrapped around a fist.”

Heat fills my chest and uncomfortable tension pulls at my temples. What a fucked up world we live in where women have to change their bodies to protect themselves. Me and my Sanctum aren’t saints, but we understand the sanctity of innocent life.

Which is another reason I shouldn’t keep Evelyn. She deserves the simple, calm life, deep in the suburbs with a white picket fence, and cupcakes baking in the oven. Not this, not steeped in crime and constant weariness. We may not deal in human life, but we blackmail, we launder money, we murder. So much murder. We aren’t much better, and she deserves better.

“I’m sorry you had to do this to find comfort. Safety.”

“It’s okay. I love it with this color. I never had the opportunity before, but now… I can finally express myself. Though, the cut was actually Maddox’s idea.”

Somehow, I’m not surprised it was. After all, he keeps his hair buzz cut for a reason.

“It suits you. Color and all. The clothes too. Of course, you look like a goddamn wet dream in leather trousers, but beyond that, you look like yourself.”

She giggles and I swear the sound is music to my fucking ears. She’s gonna be okay. I finally breathe easier, I didn’t realize how tense my body actually was.

“Thank you,” she says. “This has always been the style I’ve been attracted to. It’s quite a privilege to be able to dress like this now. Someday I will have a house lathered in dark walls, maximalist corners drenched in gold frames, plants, and weird art, and a deep-emerald kitchen.”

“Really? Is that your dream?”

“Well… actually my dream is to open a bakery.”

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