Page 86 of Cuffed By Your Love
“Say it. I need to hear you, baby.”
“I’m with you,” I croaked, trying not to wince when my lip split wider from speaking.
He stared at me like he wanted to gather all my broken pieces and offer God a trade. His peace for my protection. His whole self for my safety. His eyes told stories his mouth didn’t havetime to: stories of rage, helplessness, and a love so wide it could swallow oceans.
He started the engine with one hand, the other still holding mine like it was a lifeline. The cruiser pulled off, and as we turned past the crowd, I saw Kam in cuffs, his face a bloody mess, one eye swollen, his lip split, but he was smirking. Smirking like he didn’t just try to take something sacred from me. Like his bruises made him a martyr instead of a monster.
Elias saw it too.
“Look at that bitch,” he muttered under his breath. “Still smug. Still breathing. Man, he lucky Chambers pulled me back ’cause I swear on my badge I would have cracked that muthafucka’s skull wide open like communion bread on first Sunday. Wanna act like a man but touch women like a coward? Nah. He gon’ learn.”
I squeezed his hand.
“Let me say what you can’t,” he said, glancing over at me, his voice softer. “Let me carry the rage for you. You just rest, baby.”
The city blurred past the window, but I wasn’t watching it. I was watching him. The set of his jaw. The wild in his eyes. The way he blinked back fury just to give me tenderness.
“I should have been there,” he whispered, barely audibly. “I should have been there to stop it. I should ha?—”
“Elias,” I said, my voice just a breath. “You’re here now.”
He looked at me then, and whatever guilt was hanging off his shoulders fell to the floor between us. We were still broken, but we were still here.
“If a nigga so much asthinksabout hurting you, I’ma make his mama mourn like the days don’t end. Drawn out, ugly, praying for death that won’t come quick enough. I’m not just yours, baby. I’m your reaper in street clothes, your calm ’fore the sirens, your whole damn militia strapped to one heartbeat. You are mine now, and if I gotta, I’ll turn the block into a crimescene mural: blood like graffiti running in the gutters, chalk outlines like they’re worshipping you. I’ll carve your name into the concrete with their bones, make every breath in this city taste like the fear of what I’ll do next. Let ’em test me… I’ll make the devil hold my coat.”
And for the first time since that first fist landed, I believed I’d survive it. Maybe not untouched. Maybe not unscarred. But I’d survive it, with him. Because Elias didn’t just come for me.
He showed up ready to war for me.
And that meant everything.
The fluorescent lights in County flickered like they were trying to match my heartbeat, stuttering, gasping, barely holding on.
I sat on the edge of that cold-ass ER cot, elbows digging into my thighs, hands tucked between them, like if I held myself tight enough, I wouldn’t shatter. My hoodie smelled like strawberries and copper. My lip felt fat as hell. And my spirit was some combination of numb and nuclear, trying to convince my body it was safe to exist again.
But Elias was there.
Posted in that tight-ass corner of the room like he was guarding treasure. His fists were still clenched, chest still rising like he hadn’t come down off the rage yet. He’d been pacing ever since the paramedics wheeled me in, mumbling angry-ass prayers that sounded more like war cries whispered through gritted teeth.
“Lord, if You don’t calm my hands right now, I’ma catch a fucking case for real…”
His voice cracked halfway through the third lap across the tile floor. When he turned and looked at me again, his wholebody softened, like I was a balm to his wounds when I was the one bruised and broken.
“Baby, do you need anything?” he asked, walking over, brushing the back of his hand against my cheek like I was porcelain laced in gold. “Ice? Water? A blanket?”
“I’m good,” I lied. But he saw through it, like always.
“Lying ass,” he muttered softly, crouching down in front of me. “You are strong, but you don’t have to pretend with me, baby.”
I looked into his eyes, eyes that had seen too much, buried too many, and still chose to hold me like I was worth salvation. My throat burned, my lip trembled, and all I could say was, “I’m tired, Eli.”
He nodded, leaned forward, and kissed the inside of my knee. Not in a sexual way—just a gesture of reverence, like he was apologizing to the part of me that carried all the weight but never got the praise.
“Rest, baby. I got you,” he whispered.
And he meant that shit.
He held my hand while the triage nurse cleaned the blood from my face. He filled out my paperwork, using his big-ass palm to brace the clipboard against his thigh while scribbling out my emergency contact info like he was signing a treaty to end war. He didn’t flinch when the doctor pressed against my ribs, nor did he move when I hissed in pain. He just leaned in closer and whispered, “Breathe through it, Deputy Gorgeous. I’m right here.”
