Page 146 of These White Lies
“No,” I practically growl. I don’t think I’m physically capable of putting her down.
They exchange a look but don’t argue. Adjusting their set-up, they begin the assessment where we sit—me on the edge of the couch, Elizabeth draped across my lap, her head tucked against my chest.
“Is she conscious?” the lead medic asks.
Elizabeth stirs slightly, then winces. “Yes,” she croaks.
“We’re going to check your pulse and blood pressure, ma’am.”
She nods, and I stroke her hair, comforting her as much as myself.
They work methodically, checking her pupils and heartbeat and assessing her for broken bones. Her hands get the most attention—the broken fingers, purple and swollen.
“Three broken fingers,” the medic murmurs to me as he wraps and splints them. “Nothing else major. She’s lucky.”
Lucky. My jaw tightens. I look down at her face, her lashes wet against her cheek, her body limp against mine.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Real fucking lucky.”
When they’re finished, I thank them quietly. Standing, I carry her into the bedroom and seat us on the bed. Sera lingers only long enough to place a few soft cloths and a bowl of warm water on the bedside table before slipping out and shutting the door.
Elizabeth’s eyes are open now. “I can do it,” she murmurs.
“Let me take care of you for a minute.” My voice is raw, but I don’t attempt to hide it from her.
When she doesn’t argue, I dip the cloth in the water and press it to her cheek.
She flinches—not from fear, just pain.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“You didn’t do it,” she whispers back.
I keep going. Slow, careful, and as gentle as I can, I wipe away the dried blood at the corner of her mouth and under her jaw. The medics cleaned the deeper cut by her hairline, but I skim the cloth over the surrounding skin.
Her eyes never leave me. Her good hand lifts, closes over my wrist when I lift her to sit on the bed next to me. Removingthe surgical scissors from the small first aid kit the medic left, I finger the hem of her dress.
“What are you doing?” she whispers, eyes flicking down.
“The dress is too tight. You need to get out of it.”
She protests, but when the first careful snip sounds at her side, she goes quiet. I cut a straight line up one seam, then the other, the fabric parting without pulling against her skin.
She huffs a weak laugh. “I’m going to owe Dahlia a new Dior.”
“I think she’ll understand.”
The ruined fabric slips from her shoulders, and she shifts so that I can pull it away. Using a fresh cloth, I wipe down the sweat dried against her collarbone, her arms, the tremor in her body easing a fraction under the slow passes.
Once she’s clean, I help her ease into a pair of loose sleep pants and one of my T-shirts, careful of her splinted fingers. She leans into me without a word, trusting me to move her.
I drop to a crouch at the edge of the bed and take her bare foot in my hand. Her skin is cut, marked from gravel and being dragged. I wipe each arch, each heel, until they’re clean.
Setting the bowl on the nightstand, I pull her into my arms again, lowering us carefully until we are lying facing each other.
“I was so scared,” she breathes, voice breaking. “I didn’t know where they were taking me, or what they were going to do. But I knew you’d come.”
The words hit more painfully than any bullet. My heart squeezes until I can’t breathe. “I shouldn’t have let you go in there.”
