Page 44 of Saved By Two

The first thing I notice when I step into the hallway is the smell of cooking, causing my mouth to water and my stomach to grumble.

I can hear the faint sound of music as I kick off my shoes and loosen my tie, popping the top button of my shirt as I make my way to the kitchen.

Jessica is slowly swaying her hips along to the beat of the music as she stands in front of the stove, stirring something in a saucepan.

I’m transfixed as I watch her entirely in her element, and my heart staggers an irregular beat in my chest.

She turns to grab something from the counter and must catch me in her peripheral vision; a shriek leaves her lips as her hand knocks over a glass of juice that shatters when it hits the floor.

Her hand shoots to her mouth as her eyes go wide, and I immediately rush forward, but my reaction only spooks her more, and her bare foot crunches on the broken glass.

A sharp hiss escapes her lips.

“Shit,” I say and move around the shards, grabbing her gently by her hips and lifting her onto the counter.

“I’m so sorry,” she says in a rush, tears springing to her eyes. “I’ll clean that up and, of course, replace the glass.” She tries to slide off the counter, but my hand holds her thigh, keeping her in place.

“No, you’ll let me take care of your foot, Jessica. You’re bleeding.”

Drops of blood fall to the tiled flooring.

I lift the back of her calf and bring her foot up on the counter's edge.

“Don’t move. I’m just going to grab the first aid kit.”

I glance at her face, she’s pale, tear-streaked, and I fucking hate it.

Cupping the back of her neck, I pull her towards me and whisper. “It’s all right, little one.” I brush my lips over hers in a brief kiss before pulling her into my chest. Her small fingers grip my shirt, a shiver rolling through her.

“I’m sorry I startled you.”

A small sob escapes her; my fingers thread into her hair softly, and I tilt her head back so I can see her eyes.

“You never have to fear me. You know that, right?”

“I know. I’m sorry,” she says with a slight hiccup.

I hate she’s even still apologising to me. It’s my fault, but seeing her reaction was a sucker punch to the gut.

My palm rubs up and down her back, before I pull away and move to the cupboard where we keep the first aid kit.

Grabbing one of the breakfast bar stools, I slide it closer to her and pull her foot into my lap.

“I hope you’re not ticklish, little one. I don’t fancy a kick to the gut.”

Unzipping the kit, I locate the tweezers and as carefully as possible, I remove the tiny shards of glass.

“It started over the most minute things,” she says hoarsely. I peer up to look at her face, but she’s staring at her foot, yet her focus is removed far from here. “Once, I buttered the bread of his sandwich, and he lost it and threw it against the wall. It was the first time he shouted at me.” She huffs out a laugh but is anything from amused. “And yet I was the one who apologised and cleaned up the mess.”

I squeeze her calf softly, wanting her to know I’m here and she’s not alone.

“And then the little things became the big things. My makeup, the way I dressed. Or how I organised the cupboards. Nothing was ever good enough, yet I wanted to please him. Can you believe that?”

Pausing what I’m doing, I reach up and grab her hand.

“He’s an abusive sociopath. This is all on him.” And there will come a day when there is a reckoning, when he’ll pay for what he’s done.

She looks away, and I return to cleaning and dressing her foot. Luckily, it’s superficial.

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