Page 73 of Silence and Surrender

“Everything hurts,” she whispered, her first real words since the car. “But don’t stop. Please.”

Her hair gradually softened under my ministrations, dark strands clinging to my fingers as I rinsed away weeks of grime. I took my time, massaging her scalp with gentle pressure, watching as some of the tension eased from her shoulders. The water darkened with dirt and blood, and I drained and refilled it twice before being satisfied.

When her hair was finally clean, I moved to her body, using the softest washcloth I could find. Every touch was careful, reverent. This wasn’t about desire, it was about restoration, about giving her back the dignity they’d stolen. I washed away dirt and blood and horror, keeping up a quiet stream of reassurance when she trembled.

The medical supplies Allegra had gathered sat ready—antibiotic ointment for the infected wounds, gauze for the worst abrasions, cream for the bruises. I treated each injury with methodical care.

“Almost done,” I promised, supporting her as she stood on shaky legs. The water dripped off her too-thin frame, revealing more bruises, more marks that made me want to resurrect her captors just to kill them again. I wrapped her in a heated towel, patting her dry with infinite gentleness. Her skin was like tissue paper, bruising at the slightest pressure.

Allegra had brought some of her own clothes for Isabella, but I ignored them. Instead, I laid out some of mine, cotton sweatpants with a drawstring waist and one of my undershirts. The shirt that usually stretched across my shoulders now drowned her diminished frame, but something in me settled a bit at seeing her in my clothes.

Safe. Protected.

Mine.

“Your hair next,” I said, settling her on the edge of the bed. I worked methodically with the comb, starting at the ends and working up, careful not to pull. The repetitive motion seemed to soothe her, and her eyes drifted closed as I combed each section.

Her hair finally smooth, I moved to treating the raw marks on her wrists and ankles. Steele’s doctor had given me some specialized bandages that wouldn’t stick to the wounds. I worked with careful precision, wrapping each injury while monitoring her face for signs of pain.

“Are you hungry?” I asked, securing the last bandage. She nodded slightly, though exhaustion was clear in every line of her body.

Allegra had not only cooked, but left several options: clear broth, thin porridge, mint tea. The doctor had been clear about starting slowly, about not overwhelming her system, and my sister-in-law delivered. Cooper had relayed what the doctor had said to Allegra, and she rushed to prepare everything she could. I said a silent thank you to my brother and his wife.

“We’ll start small,” I said, helping her settle against the pillows. Allegra must have had the housekeeper pile every soft blanket she could find on the bed, creating a nest of warmth. The broth was still warm in its thermos, and I helped her wrap her hands around the mug, supporting it when her fingers trembled.

“Small sips,” I reminded her, watching as she managed a few swallows. Each seemed to take tremendous effort, but color gradually returned to her lips. When she couldn’t manage any more, I set the mug aside and reached for the lip balm Allegra provided. Her lips were cracked and bleeding from dehydration, and I dabbed the healing ointment on with gentle touches.

“Are you cold?” I asked, noticing her slight shiver. At her nod, I adjusted the blankets, tucking them carefully around her shoulders. The penthouse’s heating was already set high, but her body was struggling to regulate temperature after so long in that cold cell.

“You should rest now,” I said, moving to clear away the medical supplies. Her hand shot out, catching my sleeve with surprising strength.

“Stay?” The word was barely audible, but the fear behind it was clear.

“Always.” I slid under the blankets beside her, letting her determine how close she wanted to be. After a moment’s hesitation, she curled into my warmth, her head finding my chest. I kept my touch light, mindful of her injuries, but she pressed closer, seeking contact.

Her breathing gradually steadied against my chest, but sleep didn’t come easily. Every noise from the street below made her tense. Each time the heating system kicked on, her fingers would clutch at my shirt. I kept up a quiet stream of comforting words, one hand running gently through her now-smooth hair.

“You’re safe,” I said softly when a siren in the distance made her whimper. “I’ve got you. No one will hurt you again.”

After a few hours, the first nightmare hit. She thrashed against invisible restraints, crying out in French. I held her carefully, calling her name until she surfaced.

“Colton?” Her voice was cracked, uncertain.

“Right here.” I reached over to turn on the small lamp, letting her see my face. “You’re in the penthouse. I’m here.”

She blinked, reality slowly returning. “They were...the needles...”

“Never again.” I brushed the damp hair from her forehead. “He can’t touch you anymore. I made sure of it.”

She curled closer, shivering despite the warmth. I pulled another blanket around us, tucking it carefully around her shoulders.

“Do you want to try some more broth?” I asked when her trembling continued. At her slight nod, I helped her sit up, supporting her as she managed a few more sips. The doctor had stressed the importance of small, frequent amounts of liquid to combat the dehydration.

When she finished, I eased us back down, arranging the pillows to keep her elevated slightly, better for her bruised ribs. She shifted restlessly, trying to find a position that didn’t hurt.

“Here,” I murmured, guiding her to lie more fully against my chest. My body heat seemed to help, and she gradually stilled, one hand fisted in my shirt like an anchor.

“Talk to me?” she whispered. “About anything. Just...need your voice.”

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