Page 83 of Windlass

Not as bad ashim, but—

She hadn’t known that Lana—

She leaned forward, then slammed her head back against the brick wall hard enough to make her teeth clack in her jaw, bright red pain burning away the sensation of hands on her body.

The box, murmuringIt’s not cheating on your aunt if I don’t kiss you.

Other times, like a hole in a dam, one leak blew it all wide open. Her jaw locked on a scream. She needed out. She needed out now. She needed—

Memory snapped at her heels. She tried to stop the flashback, but it barreled forward.

No one had believed Angie. She’d stood in front of her parents and begged them to make her uncle stop. They’d blamedher. She’d gone to her parents with complete faith they would save her. They were her parents. They loved her. Of course, they would protect her. Of course, they would believe her and take her side.

No one was ever really safe to trust.

“Ange.”

She didn’t look up. The bricks opposite spun.

Lean arms folded her into a hug that was more vise grip than embrace. A hiccup of agonized relief escaped before the panic attack broke over her in a deluge. Lana hadn’t left. Lana was still here.

Lana pushed her against the wall with her hips, one hand cradling her head, the other hand over her mouth so she could scream aloud.

She did. Lana’s hands tasted familiar: a little bit of weed, hair spray, and salt. When her throat was flayed and no more sound came out, Lana tucked Angie’s head beneath her chin and pulled her into a real hug—the kind of hug she only gave Angie after particularly rough sex: tender and a little dismissive, but present.

Orhadit been dismissive? Had Lana simply not been comfortable showing real emotion?

Only when Angie’s breathing had held steady for several minutes did Lana pull away. Angie reached for her, still blind, her body seeking the oblivion Lana had provided so many times before.

Lana put her hand on Angie’s, which had fisted her shirt into a knot, and pried her fingers loose.

“Trauma makes you such a slut,” she said. “Come on. I’m not fucking you with snot on your face.”

She expected Lana to lead her to her car. The blast of light and sound as the door to the cafe swung open did not make sense at first.

“What did you do to her?” Stormy’s low, angry hiss penetrated the fog.

“Just keep a fucking eye on her.”

“I swear to—”

“Suck my dick. And put an ice pack on her head.”

Angie felt Lana’s departure as a pressure change. She half turned to follow, but Stormy called over her shoulder for someone in the kitchen to watch the till and bustled Angie out the back door and up the stairs to her apartment, where she sat down on Stormy’s vintage velvet couch.

“Baby girl, talk to me. Did she do that to your arm?”

Angie looked down at the livid red marks, clearly teeth, scraped into her skin. The bruise would be unpleasant. She shook her head.

Stormy searched her face. Realization hit her with visible decisiveness. Rising, Stormy crossed to the kitchen of the small apartment and ran a dishrag under cold water, then grabbed an ice pack from her freezer. Angie accepted both, a few drops of water running down her wrists.

The cold brought her mostly back. Stormy crouched before her, hands on Angie’s knees, gazing at her with an aching tenderness Angie couldn’t bear. She closed her eyes and breathed.

“I’m okay now.”

“What happened? What did she do?”

“Nothing.”

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