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“She wasn’t a cat woman.” I squint at him. “It was more like a jester outfit with the two colours, but instead of the floppy head bits, she had horns.”
“I’m not quite following. I think I need more information,” Noah responds, rubbing a hand across his jaw.
I have the sudden urge to be held by those hands. After I’ve had a shower, because I can still smell the metallic scent of blood. The smoke from the fire. The sharpness of Peter’s cologne. Maybe I need to shower twice.
“Rosy?” Bry prompts when I haven’t responded.
“Sorry, I think my mind’s melting,” I apologise. Then I give them the information I withheld from Logan. Although as I retell it, more details flicker in my mind.
The graceful way the woman moved. Her silence throughout, even when Peter pleaded with her. The way I’m sure he cried out, “Tell him he doesn’t need to do this.” I’m still undecided if it was all a figment of my imagination or not.
Once I’ve spilled everything to them, a little regret creeps in. “Do you think I should’ve told the detective?”
“Was there a reason why you didn’t?” Noah asks, his tone not accusatory, more curious. Not that I would blame him if he was, because I actually lied. Not just to a normal person, but to a person who has the power to punish me for lying.
I really need to stop focusing on that, otherwise I’m going to confess.
“She didn’t tell me not to. But there was a gut feeling that I shouldn’t.” I shrug, aware that relying on one of my internal organs to tell me what to do isn’t a great explanation, but it’s all I have.
The door to my room opens, and the doctor who saw me earlier walks in. “Rosy,” he greets. The lines around his eyes and mouth deepen when he notices how crowded the room is. Pale grey brows lifting, he turns back to me. “I’ve got the results from your x-ray.”
“Okay.” I nod and tip my head for him to continue in front of the guys.
“Everything looks all clear. You need to keep the sling on for now, and you can take pain medication if needed. We’ll get you back in for a follow up to see how it’s healing. For now, you’re free to go. Do you have any questions?” I shake my head, needing to get home. “I’ll have one of the nurses get you sorted so you can go home,” he advises, before leaving us.
SIXTY-EIGHT
ROSY
Home.
I didn’t think I’d ever return here. I’d hoped. I’d hoped so hard, and now that I’m here in the bathroom with Noah, it’s a surreal, almost full-circle moment. It’s the one he’d brought me to after the first time, the one in which he has bathed and taken care of me ever since.
I’d been destroyed, every fibre in my being contaminated and woefully not mine. The Rosy I’d watched in the mirror then hadn’t been one I’d recognised. The usually anxious, but naïve girl was gone, replaced with a darkened shell.
However, being in this home with Max, Nate, Noah, and Bry changed that. They filled that shell with love, with care, and reminded me what it was to be me.
“The shower’s ready, sweetheart,” Noah says softly from behind me.
He’s spent however long getting the water to the right temperature, leaving me to take stock of how I’ve changed again. I don’t immediately turn away from my reflection in the mirror, too focused on looking for all the small changes.
He steps in closer, his reflection coming up behind mine. “Do you want me to help?”
Gently, his hands rest at the waistband of my leggings. The ones I was wearing when he had me beneath him last night, when his hand had stroked a path up my thigh.
So much has happened since then.
At my nod, he slides them down, along with my underwear, and I help to shuffle them off my feet. My jumper was cut off at the hospital to provide access to my shoulder, so I’m wearing Nate’s hoodie. It’s large enough to swamp me and fit over my arm without jostling it.
The sound of the zip is loud as Noah tugs it down. Beneath it, I’m bare except for my arm in the sling the hospital gave me.
“Max managed to sweet talk an extra sling from the nurses, so we can shower in this one and replace it with the dry one afterward,” he advises, then removes his clothing.
He places a tender kiss on the side of my head, then catches my gaze in the mirror.
“Talk to me?” he whispers, a tendril of desperation coming through.
I realise he’s been talking to me, but I’ve not been answering.
