Page 31 of Welded Defender
Slowly she nods. “Stay,” she whispers.
Relief slides through me like a blade, sharp and heavy. I nod once, no hesitation. “Alright. I’ll take the couch.”
We climb the steps up the side of the building to her apartment. Once we’re inside, I check and double-check the lock. Then I move to the windows and test each one. Once everything’s secure, I turn back to Marcy.
She hovers near the kitchen counter, still wrapped in her scarf, fingers white where they grip the edge. She looks ready to unravel completely.
“Go get ready for bed,” I tell her, gentler than I feel. “I’ll be out here.”
Her eyes search mine, testing whether I mean it. I keep steady, keep still, and after a long moment, she nods. Shegathers some clothes and slips into the bathroom, the door closing softly behind her.
The light under the bathroom door flicks on. The faint creak of floorboards. The soft hiss of water through pipes. The shuffle of her moving around, restless.
Every sound keeps me wired. Every silence is worse. My jaw tightens. If he thinks he can use fear to keep her caged, he’s wrong. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know what lines I’ll cross to keep her safe.
When she comes back, she’s wearing flannel pajama pants and an oversized sweater. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, and she hugs her arms around herself like she’s trying to hold the pieces together.
“I should take the couch,” she says. “I’m smaller.”
“I’ll be fine on the couch,” I say automatically. “Plus, it’s closer to the door.”
Her brow furrows. “But you won’t be comfortable.”
“I’m not here to be comfortable, Marcy.”
She swallows, then looks away. “Okay.” She rustles around before bringing me a blanket and pillow that both smell like her lavender soap.
I settle on the couch, stretching my legs out, trying to make it look casual. The truth is, I’m not planning on sleeping. Not with the image of Brett’s car burned into my brain, not with the memory of how her whole body went rigid the second she saw him.
Marcy hovers at the edge of the bed for a moment, then slips beneath the covers, turning her back to me. The lamp throws warm light over her shoulders. I sit there, steady, letting the minutes tick by.
At first, her breathing comes quick and uneven. My hands clench against my knees, itching to do something—anything. Butthen, gradually, it begins to slow. Not much. Just enough that I can tell she’s drifting, exhaustion finally tugging her under.
I should stay quiet. I should let her rest. But the words push at my throat anyway, demanding release.
“You’re safe,” I murmur into the stillness. “I’ve got you.”
CHAPTER 18
Marcy
The first thing I notice is the quiet.
Not the sharp kind that prickles at the edges, waiting for something to shatter it, but a muffled, heavy quiet. Safe, almost.
The second thing I notice is the light. Pale, watery sunlight filters through the blinds, tinged gray from the clouds outside. It paints long stripes across the bedspread, across my arms where they rest over the quilt.
I blink groggily, trying to place where I am, why my body feels so weighed down. The clock on the nightstand swims into focus. My stomach drops. Eleven. Almost eleven-thirty.
I bolt upright too fast, blankets tangling around my legs. Panic floods through me. I’ve never slept this late in my life—not without Brett tearing into me for it.
And then I remember.
Twin yellow beams cutting through the dark, illuminating swirls of snow. The crunch of tires on gravel outside the garage. The engine revving hard as it disappeared down the road, taillights bleeding red into blackness.
Brett.
The memory hits me like ice water. My throat constricts, air catching, my skin buzzing like I’ve been plugged into a live wire.
