Page 8 of Unexpected Heroine

Same as I’ve been aiming to prepare Big Al.

When I pull into my driveway and throw it in park, she startles awake. A relieved sigh passes her lips when she sees me.

“We’re home, Lettie baby.”

She reaches across her body to unhook her seat belt. Her face winces in pain, and she hisses through her teeth.

“Where does it hurt?”

Her eyes land on mine. Although she attempts to fight back her grimace, she fails. “If I’m being honest, everywhere. But it’s mostly my lower chest. I think they bruised my ribs.”

A guttural snarl tears through me, but I manage to hold it inside. The last thing she needs is to feel bad about my reaction. Knowing her, she’ll feel guilty about causing me pain. That would be madness, but I know how she thinks.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to take you to the hospital? We can get you changed and take you to a different one so you’re not where the other girls are.”

Canting her head to the side, she gives it a subtle shake. “I’m sure. I’ll heal. They don’t do anything for ribs, anyhow, which I know from experience. Calamity Lettie and all. Tonight, all I want to do is shower for about two hours straight in scalding hot water. And have something to eat and drink. I’m so hungry I could eat the north end of a southbound polecat.”

I was so worried about getting her out of Redleg before my deceit imploded on us that I didn’t even think of her needing to eat or drink something. Fuck.

In the back of my mind, I wonder if letting her shower is the best idea. We need to take her to the hospital, and they’ll want to do a rape kit. If she washes away any evidence...

I promptly halt my thoughts, because finishing them feels like agony. The more I acknowledge what’s happened to her, the more the rage inside me swells.

Fuck the evidence.

She wants to be clean. I’ll clean her. End of discussion.

We don’t need evidence, because there will be no trial.

I will be the judge, jury, and motherfucking executioner.

When she sighs and resumes taking off her seat belt, I blink twice and remind myself that this is not the time for that line of thinking. Right now, it’s all about Lettie. I need to ensure she’s clean, fed, and comfortable. After that, I’ll tend to her injuries.

Once that’s all taken care of, I’ll figure out how to work on the wounds we can’t see. The ones deep inside her. The scars that will rival my own trauma, eventually far surpassing it.

One thing’s certain. I’m not equipped to deal with the emotional struggles she’s facing, at least not with a clear mind.

As it is, I’m battling the urge to let my fury blind me.

When she winces in pain exiting the car, it becomes easier to focus on caring for her, as if an instinct takes over.

My arsenal for handling things like this is limited to two situations—skills used while deployed and those from my role as a Dom. Lettie won’t respond to the same treatment one would give an injured soldier—not for her physical ailments, at least. So I’ll treat this like an after-care situation.

A well and truly fucked one.

“Wait right there, sugar. I’ll help you out.”

She doesn’t fight me, only gives me a solemn nod.

Moving swiftly, I dash around the car. After gingerly helping her out, I bring her into the house and lock the door behind us. She’s walking fine, albeit slowly.

“Head on down to the bathroom. I’ll grab you some water and crackers so you have something in your belly. I’ll meet you in there.”

Releasing my hand, she takes two steps toward the hallway before freezing. Her spine goes ramrod straight, and she balls her fists at her sides.

I close the distance between us in one large step. “What’s wrong? You don’t want crackers? What do you want? Some toast? Grilled cheese? I think something light is best to start.”

Instead of answering, she opts for avoidance. “I’ll go with you into the kitchen.”

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