Page 10 of Stained Protector

He strokes my back, and the tenderness nearly breaks apart the curling strain in my throat. A low timbre resounds, a signal to wrap his arm around my back and under my weak knees. I keep my face in his chest as he stands gently, quietly, and at ease.

“I’m going to take you back to the studio,” he whispers, the tone even while leaving the plaguing crime scene. “I have a friend at the department; he’ll take your case.”

The walk is tense and hushed, with cars screeching on wet ground and murmurs of pedestrians weaving through crowds. Once the deafening silence is taken over by liveliness, my stomach flutters in relief and grogginess.

I’ve memorized the number of steps to the elevator from the entrance, the seconds going up to his floor, and the rest of the strides to the studio door. He balances my weight on his forearm—a moment of silent respect for his power passes through my body—and enters the ten-digit code, after which the door closes on an automated lock.

The inconspicuous routine helps ground my racing mind.

He sets me down inside the bathtub and takes off my shoes. He leans on the slanted corner, seemingly lost in thought, and cups my cheek gently.

“I’ll get you a change of clothes, then I’ll make the call.” His big hand ruffles my hair, splashing cold droplets onto my face before giving a light pinch to the left cheek.

Somewhere between him returning with dry clothes and me standing up, I lose count of how many small scratches are on me. Flaring itchiness draws a frown on my lips as the hot water storms down my back.

The insinuation makes sense after I’m already dressed in his clothes and halfway shoving my nose into the long sleeve. I scrounge up my shattered dignity and put my arm down, reminiscing the heady scent with a shameful lip quiver.

I shuffle out of the bathroom and peer out into the wide space, art supplies scattered on tables and practice canvases leaning on top of each other against the wall. He’s not disorganized, but he can get in the zone and work through hours without stopping.

There is a certain fascination about him when he’s focused; the world ceases to exist and abandons him in a timeless ambiance.

“Come,” Levi says and waves his hand.

He thoroughly scans my frame, stalling on worse injuries with a disapproving scowl. I push my curled fingers onto my lap, partly eating up his attention as it warms my heart from his worry.

What if I get hurt again?

The perturbing and reprehensible idea shouldn’t exist. I refrain from slapping myself, but it’d teach me a good lesson. A thought like that has to mean my morals need fixing, and he can’t be the one to help when it possibly stems from him.

“Let’s get your statement in first,” he says and rubs the top of my head. “While it’s fresh in your mind, the details won’t be too misguided by trauma.”

His shampoo and laundry detergent bicker to be the dominant scent in my lungs; no arguments necessary as I like both equally. It’s fitting to the mood; rain pitter-pattering on the arched window hidden by thick curtains, the sweetness of green tea in my stomach, and his unwavering attention protecting me from the wraiths waiting in the exposed paintings.

His art is too realistic.

“I’m here,” he whispers, his thumb stroking the curve of my cheek softly. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

He opens an ajar laptop, and a man’s piqued expression crumples uncomfortably. He shoots a toothy grin at me, but there isn’t an ounce of sympathy in it. His droopy eyes smooth his features, giving him laid-back and cool characteristics.

Objectively, he’s attractive by society's standards.

“I’m Detective Davis,” he introduces offhandedly while adjusting his posture.

The busy background is a police station, and as he leans in for a better look at me, a woman's extraordinarily large hair whorl draws my attention away from his bent shoulders.

“Name?” he asks, clicking his pen and hovering the tip on a lined notepad.

I answer him nervously even though they are customary questions to prove my identity, but my hunch rejects the invasion of privacy.

As our meeting dives into the attack, Davis pinches the raised arch between his brows and exhales loudly.

“What are you standing there for?” the detective huffs and points his pen at the screen. “Do you want to be on the stand as a witness, too?”

“She’s a victim,” Levi corrects icily, “I’m here to observe. Unless Anya is being detained?”

The temperature takes a nosedive as they stare at each other, neither willing to lose the bizarre eye-contact competition.

Detective Davis’s jaw ticks, clearly wanting to say something until someone walks behind him. He takes the laptop and moves it to a quiet room to talk. The screen never shows the inside of the precinct, just the ruckus of someone asserting their innocence in the background and officers telling them to shut up. When the screen clears up again, the room is white-walled.

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