Page 147 of These White Lies
“You didn’t let me,” she says, faint but steady. “I chose to do it. And you came. That’s what matters.”
“I wasn’t fast enough.”
Her gaze doesn’t waver. “Yes, you were. I’m alive.”
My forehead drops to hers. I exhale shakily. “I thought I’d lose my mind when we lost comms,” I whisper. “When I knewthey’d taken you… if I didn’t get to you in time… I’m supposed to protect you.”
“You did.” Her voice is soft and certain.
It’s only when her fingers brush my cheek that I realize I’m trembling.
“I’m right here,” she whispers.
I kiss her temple. Her shoulder. The edge of her hairline. Every patch of skin that isn’t bruised.
“Sleep,” I murmur.
I hold her until her breathing steadies.
I don’t sleep.
I just keep holding her.
41
ELIZABETH
I wake in stages, pulled toward the surface by the need to use the bathroom. I sit up slowly, listening. But the bedrooms up here are well insulated, and I hear nothing. I’m not sure whether it’s comforting or terrifying. Idoknow that I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.
A deep throb pulses behind my eyes, my cheekbone is tight and hot, and my splinted fingers feel heavier than normal.
I close my eyes. Just for a second, I promise myself, even though I want to pull the covers over my head and hide.
No. Get up.
Opening my eyes, I swing my legs and gingerly rise, momentarily relieved that my feet are only mildly sore as I drag myself to the adjoining bathroom. The mirror confirms what I already know. My face is a map of bruises topped by a split lip. My eye is swollen, but it’s not completely shut, so there’s that, I think grimly.
Attractive.
One look and I realize no amount of concealer on earth is going to hide the damage.
I stare at myself for a minute, refusing to give in to the urge to return to bed. “You can do this, Elizabeth. You are fine.” I glareat the woman looking back at me with defeated eyes. “They don’t get to win.”
The water from the shower stings the fresh injuries, but I attempt to soap myself one-handed, holding my bandaged hand out of the spray, sucking in ragged breaths to keep my composure.
I don’t understand why I still feel afraid. Weak. Helpless.
I fucking hate it.
There is no point in even attempting my hair. Using my good hand, I carefully rake my fingers through the wet strands in an attempt to make it look presentable.
“Do you need some help?” Brady’s voice sounds through the door.
“No.” I don’t want him to see me like this. On some level, I know it’s ridiculous because he saw me at my worst last night, but under the overhead lights, I feel exposed.
“The Blooms and the agents from the Justice Department and FBI will be here in about thirty minutes.” There’s a pause. “If you don’t feel up to?—”
“It’s fine.” I swallow hard. “Just give me a few minutes.”
