Page 84 of Moth
“Han.” His voice turns cutting. “You’re upset. I get it. Let me get you cleaned off.”
“Don’t touch me!”
But he does, gripping my arms, holding me against him despite my attempts to pull away. “You know I love you,” he insists in my ear. “More than anyone. You’re the only one who I can trust. Only you. I forgive you for what you’ve done. I will always forgive you…” His hands slide over me, triggering a reaction I don’t try to suppress for once.
Anger sparks, catching fire in my limbs, and I push. Shove. Kick. Grunting in shock, he lets me go, and I stagger to my feet. Blindly, I race for the door, fumble it open, and then I keep running.
“Hannah!”
I start down the stairs too fast. My foot catches on a tread, and I slide down the next four steps, landing on my hip in a daze.
“Hannah!” I look up, spotting Branden racing toward me. He’s paces away by the time I crawl to my feet and stumble through the door. Out on the street, a passing couple spies me, and the woman gasps, her hand over her mouth.
“Are you okay?”
I push past her, knowing I only have seconds to spare. The distraction buys me enough time to slip into an alleyway. Then another. Another.
I don’t know if Branden’s still behind me by the time I reach a building only to find the door locked. The lights out. Its owner isn’t here.
And panic chokes me. I don’t know where else to go. I don’t even know why I came to him in the first place.
But then I glance up, spying a light in the window… Through it, I can see someone standing before it, his back to the world, his posture relaxed. A white shirt creates a contrast from his usual black, making him glow against the muted backdrop.
Relief blazes through me with such an unexpected intensity that I just stare. Gape at him. I must make some kind of noise, though. Move. Somehow, I catch his attention, making him venture closer to the glass. He stares down on me for so long, but then he turns away.
My feet twitch over the pavement. At this time of night, the traffic is moderate. Quick. Branden could be in his car by now, driving this way. He’ll spot me.
But the light on the first floor switches on before the fear drives me to start running. A figure warily approaches, pulling the door open. His eyes are narrowed as he takes me in. Then they widen. “What the fuck?”
I don’t know why or how, but the look on his face… It’s like the trigger to the pain I didn’t feel until now. Pulsating, burning, pinching agony.
He grabs my arm, pulling me inside without waiting for an explanation. The interior of his shop passes in a blur. It feels like I blink, and the next second, he’s hauling me into that back room, making me sit on the edge of the table.
“Look up,” he commands, gripping my chin.
My eyes burn from the artificial light as I comply. Something warm is dribbling down my chin, and I realize for the first time—as my body favors my right side—that the left is on fire. My knee is throbbing, and my shoulder feels stiff. With every passing second, the adrenaline wears off, giving way to a crippling sensation with each frantic beat of my heart.
Pain, pain, pain…
“He did this to you.” He’s not asking—he’s telling. Branden did this to me, causing so much blood it coats his fingertips as he continues his inspection. My brother smashed his fist into my face, the same way the man before me now attacked someone else.
Like an animal.
I don’t even register standing, but somehow, I’m limping into the hall, aware of him watching me. I feel like I’m moving underwater, weighed down, and clumsy. I keep my focus on the door, though who knows what I’ll find waiting for me beyond it. I just know I have to keep moving. Leave now.
Because the prospect of what might happen if I don’t scares me more than anything Branden is capable of.
Eventually, I make it to the door, grappling along the wall for support. My fingers curl around the handle, but a larger hand reaches from behind me, snatching my arm away. My feet leave the ground a heartbeat later, but my brain is slow to piece the reality of what’s happening together until I’m being carried inside a familiar living room and shoved onto a leather couch.
I think I try to say something, but my voice is so garbled, I don’t even understand the words.
But he does. “You can barely fucking walk,” he snarls before entering the kitchen with an enviable display of speed.
Seconds later, he returns with his arms piled high with supplies that put my meager sewing kit to shame.
“Your face is going to scar if you don’t go to a hospital,” he tells me, prodding my left cheek, which aches the most.
Any other day, I’d react to that fact with more panic. More guilt. A scar would mean more questions. Questions would mean more chances to screw up and betray Branden, which would only lead to him trying to exert more control over my life in general.
