Page 216 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

"I've got spare T-shirts."

Another nod.

"And some academy sweatpants."

She nodded once more. I stood, my knees protesting after the long night, and turned toward the hallway.

"...Elias?"

I stopped instantly.

"Stay."

It wasn't playful. It wasn't dramatic. No sarcasm. Just fear. Pure, stripped-back fear.

I looked back at her sitting beneath the harsh bathroom light, wrapped in dried blood, bruises and my jersey, trying with everything she had left to stop her body from trembling.

"Yeah."

I swallowed against the tightness in my throat.

"I'm staying."

I pulled the bathroom door almost closed, leaving it open just enough that she could still see me from where she sat. The last coherent thought that crossed my mind before I opened my wardrobe was brutally simple.

Don't even think about looking through that gap, you sick fuck.

She's terrified. She's concussed. She's covered in bruises. She's an injured civilian under your protection. The fact she’ll be wearing your shirt doesn't change a damn thing. Protect her. Treat her. Keep her alive.

Everything else belongs in another lifetime.

I pulled open the bottom drawer and reached for the softest grey T-shirt I owned, the cotton worn almost weightless after years of washing. Beside it I grabbed a pair of loose black academy sweatpants before collecting two thick bath towels from the linen cupboard. On my way back I stopped at the hallway cabinet, lifted out my primary trauma bag and checked the contents automatically: sterile saline, gauze, butterfly closures, bandages, pain medication, antiseptic, torch, thermometer.

Good.

I carried everything back to the bathroom, placing the folded clothes, towels and medical kit neatly on the stool outside the half-open door. Because once she'd washed the blood, mud and warehouse dust from her skin…

I was going to examine every single injury. Every bruise. Every cut. Every fingerprint left around her throat. Every fracture. Every place Collins had laid his hands on her. And when I found him again...

I intended to make him remember every last one.

Seraphina

The soft click of the bathroom door echoed through the cottage long after Elias disappeared down the hallway. I kept staring at the empty doorway anyway, my mind refusing to move forward. Somehow, against every outcome I'd prepared myself for over the last few hours, my desperate plea hadn't disappeared into another empty room. He'd heard me. He hadn't looked at me like another witness waiting to give a statement or another victim whose name would disappear into an evidence file. He'd looked at me like I mattered. Like letting go of me hadn't even crossed his mind. I wasn't entirely sure what to do with that. I wasn't used to people staying.

It took me a while to make my way to the shower, my body moving through some strange version of autopilot. Every muscle protested as I stepped beneath the icy mountain water before it slowly warmed around me. I stood there far longer than necessary, working the vanilla and cedar body wash over my skin until it stung, rubbing shampoo through my curls while brown water spiralled toward the drain, followed by streaks of crimson that slowly faded into nothing. I watched the water run clear for longer than I should have, trying to convince myself that if the blood could disappear so easily, maybe the memories could too. Collins's voice still echoed inside my skull. The smell of damp concrete still lingered somewhere beneath my skin. I scrubbed until my arms felt numb.

Somewhere beyond the steam-filled bathroom, something crackled softly.

Not silence.

A radio.

An old country song drifted faintly through the walls, softened by static and distance. It sounded worn, familiar, like it had probably been playing in this cottage long before I arrived.

Curiosity curled quietly inside my chest.

I shut the water off, wrapping one of Elias's thick towels tightly around myself before realising I still didn't have the clothes he'd promised. For a moment I simply stood there chewing the inside of my cheek. Elias had already carried me through an active crime scene, held me while I cried, peeled ropes from my wrists and refused to leave my side. Walking into his bedroom wrapped in a towel somehow felt more intimate than all of that put together.