Page 92 of Her Faithful Protector

“Ty!” I yell back, spotting a hand waving from a small opening.

He says, “Stay there, I’ll come and get you.”

I hear him crawling away from the shaft, leaving just Ava and me.

“You okay, sweetheart?” I murmur. Her breathing is rough, as if it belongs to someone else.

“Yeah,” she rasps, exhaustion plasters her from head to toe.

“Let me see your hand.”

“It’s fine, Jack.”

“Ava, let me see it!”

She holds up her bandaged hand, and I lift my head to examine it. The dressing appears to be secure and neatly applied without any indication of recent bleeding. As I take awhiff, I detect a combination of a burned scent and the smell of antiseptic.

How could those motherfuckers do this to her?

“You feel anything?” I query.

“It’s numb at the moment. I don’t know what’s going on under the dressing, but I think they cauterized the wound. They certainly didn’t want me to bleed to death. Don’t worry, I’ll live.”

With broken sobs, I kiss her wrist. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to stop him.” I choke out, my saliva tasting like acid. My guilt intensifies as I gaze at her vulnerable form. “And I couldn’t stop him from touching you.”

“Shh… baby, we’re here. Nothing else matters,” she warbles. “Remember that room I built to keep him out?” She points at her heart. “The door holds, baby. It holds. He never reached me.”

“Come here,” I invite her, desperate to feel her presence.

She’s aware of my injuries, and she hesitates to embrace me.

But no matter how great the agony, only she has the power to soothe me. “Ava, I need you here.” I nod at my chest.

Gradually, she moves closer, maneuvering around the toppled chair to reach me. It feels incredible to have her in my arms, or rather, to be in her arms.

“Quinton?” she whispers.

“He’s safe. He’s with Cass and Ben.”

She lets out a serene huff.

I brush my cheek against her curls. I can’t wait for them to smell like baby powder again. Although at this moment, as I inhale the fragrance of her natural scent, it serves as a poignant reminder of her resilience and the battles she has fought.

Her eyes linger on my face as she takes in every cut and bruise as if trying to absorb the pain herself.

“Do I really look like your sketch just now?” I ask.

She chuckles. “No. That was my most terrible creation ever.”

I toss her an agreeing smile. If only I could break free from this damn chair and hold her tight.

Her gaze inevitably falls upon the stab wound on my biceps. And even though my vacuum-sucked forearm is still covered under the silver duct tape, she doesn’t have to imagine.

I nudge my face against hers, deliberately diverting her attention from my mangled limb. I stretch my neck, trying to kiss her. She flinches slightly, her awareness drawn to my split lip as if she’s hurting me.

“Please. I need this,” I beg.

She opens her lips, leaning in to meet me. She savors the contact, even though mine are covered with cracks and no doubt tasting like blood. The tingling sensation sends a flow of comforting warmth, telling me we’ve made it.

---