Page 11 of Stained Protector

Davis squints, slowly cataloging the wounds that have been irritated by the hot water.

“Huh,” the detective drones and tilts his head to cast a deliberate side-eye at the man next to me.

Davis interrupts my thoughts with a series of unexpected questions. I do my best to answer them while he jots down the specifics of my incident. Levi stands off to the side, offering privacy, but he can step in if I become overwhelmed.

Though, he’s not safe from Davis’s cynical jab. “It sure looks like you don’t have a concussion.”

Detective Davis interrogates me like I’m a suspect and operates on the theory that I’m making this up based on the blasé glances he gives me when I’m recalling the attack. He makes an impromptu comment about the recent disappearances of women who look like me, meaning my attacker could’ve been responsible for the other crimes.

“Shocked you even got hurt,” the man mumbles over the scribbling on his notepad.

Something flashes in his bloodshot eyes before he clears his throat. “The suspect never hurt the women—hm, that’s not right. They’re still missing, so it’s hard to say how they were taken.”

“I’ll file the statement and follow up on it with you when I have more information.”

He types on his laptop, occasionally drifting his attention back to me while also supporting the same look on his face. I can tell he has something he wants to say, but he decides not to for whatever reason.

“Keep an eye on strange men,” he prompts curtly, “mainly the nearby ones.”

He finishes typing and goes over how to contact him if needed, then unceremoniously throws out that Levi was a cop, too.

I just nod courteously. The spark between them is one trigger away from a nuclear explosion. They must have a bad history together because the glacial chills on my back breach deep into my body.

“We’re no longer partners, but we can still befriends.” Levi presents a visibly mocking smile.

“What were you thinking? First, it’s CEO and then quitting to be a painter…” The detective smirks and disconnects, causing the black screen to display a lascivious angle of Levi's firm waistline.

I want to ask, but his past is his. Although, my mind has free rein on how he goes from a blue-uniformed officer to a CEO dressed in crisp suits before becoming a reclusive artist with tight cotton shirts.

“Finding my passion wasn’t easy,” Levi states, laughing playfully.

“You don’t have to tell me.” I didn't mean to spill my thoughts all over my face, and he's adept at reading signs.

“I’ll tell you the whole story another time,” he promises as he runs lithe fingers through my hair.

His fondness for petting my head like a cat surprised me, but I grew accustomed to it when he meant no harm. Maybe I'm touch-starved because I moved away from my family, or maybe it's his touch that I unconsciously seek; the intimacy is comforting.

He pops open the first-aid kit and raises my right ankle. One disciplining glare zips my lips and tramples the protest in my chest. His hands are big, rough calluses ghosting the thin skin on my foot as he applies the gel medication.

Methodical and impersonal, he examines the wound on my scalp with the precision of a professional. He brushes aside the strands and tests the area surrounding the swelling bump. It stings a bit, but it’s not painful.

He leans in for a closer inspection, and the fabric on his shoulder grazes my quivering lips as I desperately hold my breath. He smells so good, akin to a silken-sheet bed pledging a sweet dream.

As he falls back on his knees to avoid intimidating me with his towering frame, an embarrassingly high-pitched noise warbles in my throat.

“Stay however long you want, but I prefer until whoever hurt you is in custody.”

His reason is sounding. I work closely with him, so the studio is half a home for me. I’m not completely safe in my apartment yet, the new camera is doing its work, but I still feel eyes on me. Today’s attack solidifies my dire situation, and this will stay between us.

My sister will feel immense guilt after begging me to go with her on the blind date. Even though the date was a failure, she hasn’t laughed that hard since the last toxic relationship.

I purse my lips shakily. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

My mind is so muddled by everything. I haven’t gotten a good night's sleep since that one time, and I’ve been worried about an escalation in crime. I remember I left food in the microwave and forgot about it when I went to work. It was stored in the refrigerator after I got home. My hairbands and clips were missing, and one of my folded shirt corners had ruffles.

The old camera didn’t catch the intruder, and the microwave instance was the time I definitively knew someone had been in my home. Whoever has a grudge against me can hack cameras.

Nothing is going missing or being moved with the new camera. Except, the trauma lingers.

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