Page 8 of Wicked Devotions: Part 2

“I’m sorry you had to come get me so far out of your way.”

“It’s okay, Harper.” Cillian looks at her kindly. “It’s what parents are for.”

“Before you go, I have a question.”

“Okay,” he looks at her curiously.

“Would it be possible to go see my father?”

The room goes silent as Cillian and Annabelle share a surprised glance.

“Why?” Annabelle sets her hand on Harper’s knee and pats.

“I think he’s behind the stalker.”

“What makes you think that?” Cillian asks.

“The way that he talks in the letters, about me being promised to him. I know Mom would never do that.”

“I don’t think your father will be any help with this.” Annabelle is white as a sheet at the thought of Harper going to see him.

“I mean, I’m nineteen, I doubt I need your permission.” Harper straightens her back, looking them both head on. “I just don’t want to sneak around.”

“Can we think about it?” Cillian asks. “Just to come to grips with it before anything happens?”

“Yes.”

Declan is going to absolutely lose his mind. As if he wasn’t already planning on attaching himself to her like a piece of velcro, now he’ll be a hundred times worse. Not that the thought of her walking into a federal penitentiary to see her piece of shit father makes me that happy, but I do trust her.

We exchange goodbyes and watch as they back out of the driveway. The bodyguards that brought my bike back are following them in a blacked-out truck that’s been parked on the street. Harper walks into the house first, rubbing her neck as she goes. I watch as she walks over to the kitchen sink and bends down to pull out the kitchen cleaner.

“Emerson already cleaned it out.”

“Oh.” She sets the cleaner back under the sink and sighs. “I’m so embarrassed.”

“Don’t be.” I slowly approach her, unsure if she wants physical comfort or just someone to listen. “Come with me.”

She looks hesitantly at my outstretched hand before placing hers in it. “Where?”

“You’ll see.”

I lead her upstairs to her room. The sheets are still a mess from the four of us last night. As I pull her into the bathroom, I drop her hand and walk over to the bathtub. I can tell her muscles hurt, and I know how bad the stiffness can get when you are triggered by PTSD.

Obviously, I don’t know that was what happened to her this morning, but I feel a connection to her, an understanding, on a level I can’t quantify or explain. I know her body has to be hurting, though.

I start filling the tub and dump a generous amount of bath salts into the water, so they can dissolve. When I turn around she’s looking at me with gratitude and a sort of amazement.

“How did you know?”

“I just did. I always hurt when something triggers me. They say the body stores our trauma.”

“Do baths help you, too?”

My lips quirk into a slight grin. “No, but to be honest I’ve never tried.”

“What do you do then?”

“Emerson.”

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