Page 196 of Ruin Me Gently

“You can. Look at me.”

I did. My eyes locked onto his.

My fingers trembled as I reached for my locket, pressing it between my thumb and forefinger, so tight it hurt.

His fingers curled around my wrist. His touch was gentle, featherlight. “You’re bleeding.”

I hadn’t even noticed the pain. Not until now. Not until I saw what he saw—crescent shaped wounds along my palms, where my nails had dug too deep.

“Shit,” he whispered as he kneeled, pulling me closer without pulling me apart, hands cradling mine like they were delicate and breakable. “Sweetheart. What did you do?”

I didn’t have an answer. I didn’t know. I’d just wanted it to stop. The noise, the fear, the choking weight in my ribs. “I—” my voice cracked. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t. Don’t apologise.” His breath hitched, and one hand came up to cup the side of my face, his thumb sweeping slow and steady over my cheek.

He pulled me into him, warm and solid, his grip tightening as my forehead pressed into his chest. “I’ve got you. You need to come with me, okay?”

I nodded.

He let me push up off him, his hands steadying me, giving me space but not letting go completely. Then he led me to the kitchen.

The counter was cool against my thighs as he lifted me onto it, his hands lingering at my side for a second before he stepped away.

He moved quickly. Cabinet door. Hinge creak. The quiet thunk of the first aid kit hitting the counter. He exhaled, tilting his head slightly, like he was trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Just like I was.

“Let me take care of you,” he said.

He popped open the kit, pulling out antiseptic and gauze. I stared at his hands. They never shook, never hesitated. He made everything feel so much smaller, so much easier to survive.

I flinched, sucking in a breath.

His hands froze. His head snapped up, eyes flicking to my face, then back down to my hand where he’d just pressed the antiseptic-soaked cloth to my palm. “Shit. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I should’ve—”

“It’s fine,” I whispered.

He was more careful then, softer, slower. “What happened?”

I swallowed, staring at my hands. My pulse thudded at the base of my throat, thick and heavy. “Dr. Hayes.”

He stilled, brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

The air was stuck in my lungs. I wanted to say it without feeling like I was going to rip at the seams. “I don’t want to do therapy anymore.”

His hands paused over mine, the bandage halfway wrapped around my palm. “Why?”

My throat tightened, body already bracing for the words.

“Because it hurts too much. She wanted to talk about my nightmares,” I forced out. “I started telling her and I just—” I sighed, frustrated with myself, shaking my head. “I freaked the fuck out, it was too much. I can’t do it anymore, Silas. It hurts so—”

The last word caught, splintering. I clenched my jaw, hating the way my voice shook, hating the way my hands wouldn’t stop trembling even in his.

“No,” he said.

I blinked. What? “Silas—”

“No.” His eyes burned into mine, searching. “You can’t give up because it hurts.”

My shoulders curled in, the weight of it pressing into my ribs, crushing. “I don’t know how to carry on.”

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