Page 76 of Ethereally Redeemed

Draven tosses me the car keys, and I catch them without taking my eyes off Naya.

“I’ll take her home,” I murmur as I gently guide her toward the car parked next to Draven’s bike.

“Grey?” she whispers once we’re out of earshot. My chest tightens at the sound of her quiet, fragile voice.

“Yeah, little one?”

“He’s not here, is he?”

“No, he’s dead,” I tell her, kissing her temple, hoping it will somehow soothe her distressed heart.

That’s the moment she breaks down. Sobs wrack her body as she clutches my shirt, clinging to me for dear life. Her mind is a disaster, chaotic and wild, but a beautiful mess all the same. Relief crashes over me in tumultuous waves as I get her inside the car, instantly cranking the heater up. Then I drive back to Draven’s cottage, feeling as if I can finally breathe again.

She’s fast asleep by the time we arrive, her face peaceful and relaxed, far from the scowl and worry she wears when awake. As I watch her rest, doubt filters through my soul. Can I keep her safe from the battle raging inside her mind, intent on tearing her apart? Or will I lose her before we’ve even begun to find our freedom?

Chapter 29

Naya

The rain patters softlyagainst the fabric-covered roof above me, and I can’t help but feel a sense of tranquility at the sound, despite the uncomfortable situation I’ve found myself in.

After my breakdown last week, Draven decided he would allow me to have at-home visits with the psychologist, which goes for Grey, too, as he had his first session here two days ago. It feels comforting to be in an environment that doesn’t remind me of Dankworth Institute—somewhere private where I can find the peace I need without feeling pressured.

That’s not to say I’m not anxious, because I am. Dread churns inside me like a thunderclap, and I can feel the impending strike of lightning.

I sit outside with a blanket wrapped around me as the rain falls around their large terrace. Before me sits a middle-aged woman with her hair pulled back in a bun, taking in the nature before us. Her name is Camila Wilson, an acquaintance of Draven’s and the psychiatrist he initially talked about when suggesting therapy—not the other man at the clinic, Dr. Miller.

This is our first meeting, and Camila is taking it easy, not pressuring me for anything, even when I’m all fidgety and unable to sit still. My hands tightly clutch the blanket, though it does little to ease my growing anxiety.

“How are you feeling about being here today?” Camila asks, her kind eyes focused on me, curious yet not prodding.

I swallow, struggling to find my voice. “Fine, I guess. I don’t know,” I tell her, not sure where to look. Looking at her feels too intimidating.

“It’s normal to feel uncertain during first sessions. But I promise you we’ll go slow and at your own pace. You don’t tell me anything you’re not ready to talk about, okay?”

“Okay,” I whisper, feeling a weight lifting off my shoulders.

“You decide whatever pace we go.”

I nod, licking my lips, relieved at her words. Silence fills the space around us, except for the soft patter of rain mixed with snow against the tent-like pergola overhead, and the bushes and branches nearby.

“I’ve gotten the basics from Draven about what happened, but I’d like to hear it from you so I can guide you in the best way possible. From what I understand, you were heavily traumatized at a human trafficking ring before you were sent to Dankworth Institute, where you met Grey. Then there was the dollhouse, which you escaped from. You’ve been through a lot,” she begins.

Her words bring the memories rushing back, my throat closing as my lungs lose the capability to breathe.

“That’s correct,” I whisper, feeling the trees swirling around us as dizziness settles in.

“Do you feel comfortable telling me about your parents?”

My mouth opens, but closes just as quickly, absorbing her question. The truth about my parents is too messy and raw, something sacred that I can’t share with anyone except for Grey. It’s a brutal truth that makes up who I am, and how it all started. Yet, at the same time, isn’t that what she needs to hear to understand and guide me? Don’t I want that help?

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to stave off the pressure building inside me. Meanwhile, Camila remains silent, not pushing me to answer. She’s merely waiting, yet somehow, that feels even worse, forcing me to be the one to break the silence.

I can’t stand the pressure bubbling up like an erupting volcano that will explode any second—a deadly diseasespreading inside me. Without even thinking about it, I drag my heel up to my knees, sitting in a tailored position, and start picking at the skin on my feet, alternating between picking and scratching my arm until I’m all red. Her perceptive gaze makes me feel even more nervous, my hands shaking violently.

“M-my mother killed my f-father when I was seven,” I whisper.

The surroundings quieten, as if even the trees heard my revelation and dare not make a sound.

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