Page 142 of The Anchor Holds

Still, neither of us spoke. The silence would’ve been jarring if not for the uproar in my head. I vaguely wondered what he was hearing, what he was thinking. But those thoughts quickly floated away. I didn’t have the energy to hold on to them. Elliot rifled through drawers, putting me in panties, his shirt. The softness of the fabric and the subtle scent of him did little to calm me like it did in the past. I could barely hold myself up while Elliot put on his underwear. Luckily, he didn’t leave me standing in the middle of the room, weighed down by gravity for long.

The next thing I knew, we were horizontal. When he gathered me in his arms, I lay there, staring at the ceiling while he lazily drew circles on my back.

Still, we didn’t speak.

What was there to say?

ELLIOT

She was asleep.

Or unconscious.

I figured it was the latter. Sleep was peaceful, something you drifted into when you were relaxed, when your brain stopped running, when you felt safe. Although she hadn’t said a word, I knew that her mind was screaming at her. That’s what I saw behind her vacant stare, her wordless shrieks. Her body was ramrod-straight, even when I tried to bring her into my arms. It was like her muscles were tight as a bow string. And as much as I wished—fuck, did I wish—I had the power to make Calliope feel safe, I knew that wasn’t in my control.

I was powerless. Just like I had been while waiting for her, knowing she was doing something dangerous beyond my comprehension. Even with her there, alive and breathing in my presence, I couldn’t save her, couldn’t bring her back to me. She’d saved herself from whatever physical threat she’d been under. So I had to trust that she’d save herself from the mental battle too. I’d done what I could—washed her, murmured empty platitudes in her ear, brought her to her bed, laid her down with me.

She’d gone along with everything, but not in the way she did when we did other things in my bedroom, when her submission was an active decision. She’d gone along because her mind wasn’t there with me. She wasn’t there with me. Even when her limbs slackened somewhat, when her breathing evened, and it was clear that she was no longer awake, I didn’t consider what happened falling asleep. Her body has simply expired from what she’d been through. I held her tighter. She was painfully limp in my arms. Like she’d given up.

Calliope. Giving up. Unfathomable.

Finding her in a pile on the floor covered in blood was the worst moment of my life. Despite the relief of knowing the blood wasn’t hers. Some part of me knew a physical wound might’ve been easier for me to deal with. I could stitch. Staunch bleeding. But this? Whatever this wound was inside of her? I was defenseless against it.

She’d fought her battle alone because she was that brave. She’d won that battle because she was that strong. But at what cost?

Though I was ignorant to a lot of what she’d conquered—a fact that infuriated me, even though I understood why Calliope hadn’t told me everything and likely never would—I understood the basics. Jasper had introduced her to something, and hadsome kind of power over her. Whatever that was would never go away.

And he was dangerous. Immensely fucking dangerous. Beyond what I could comprehend. She’d known that the only way to end it was to end him.

Again, beyond my comprehension. Killing.

But I knew that it needed to happen. With just the scant interactions I’d had with the man, I understood that the only way to get him out of Calliope’s life was to put him in the ground. It was unmistakable based on the way he looked at her, like he wanted to bring her inside his fucking soul.

And then there was the information that he’d killed Naomi. To get to Calliope. He wouldn’t shy away from laying more bodies at her feet. She’d known that. She’d kept that in this entire time. That’s what the wrinkle in her brow was when she stared into space, that’s why she was on her laptop, tapping away at all hours as if her life depended on it. Why whenever I told her what to do, the weight rolled off her shoulders, and she looked like a different person.

So yes, she made the right choice. She made the only choice. She had gone into the lion’s den, alone, wearing white and fucking heels, drenched herself in the blood of predators then returned to Jupiter, only letting herself break once here.

Alone.

Because she didn’t want to lean on anyone. She didn’t want to fall apart in anyone’s arms. She would’ve sat there all night, covered in blood, fucking catatonic.

When I’d been sitting with Rowan and Kip, the one thing they’d suggested was to put an alarm on her place, so if she did come home, an alert would be sent right to my phone.

I’d been furious at that being the only thing to do, thinking it wouldn’t help anything. I needed to both thank Rowan and Kip and apologize to them.

That was way down the list, though.

I’d been powerless before. Yet it was now my job to do everything in my power to bring my woman back to me.

Twenty-Seven

Ceilings — Lizzie McAlpine

CALLIOPE

Ididn’t wake delicately.

I never had in the past, so why would this morning be any different?

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