Page 31 of Ripped Veil (Ripped Bratva)

But not before I notice the blood and bruises all over her face.

“Oh my God, Charity!” I gasp. “What happened?”

Tears stream down her face as she clings to me. Her entire body is trembling, and she can barely get her sobs out, let alone an explanation. I just hug her, rubbing her shoulders until her crying subsides somewhat.

“Hey, hey, hey,” I soothe. “It’s okay. You’re here now. You’re safe.”

It feels strange to be the comforter. Typically, that’s been Charity’s role in our relationship. I’m oddly grateful for the change.

But I hate that she’s suffering. And my blood boils at the thought of the man who did this to her.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come like this, but… but… I didn’t know where else to g-g-go.”

“You came to exactly the right place,” I tell her firmly. I pull away just enough so that I can look at her face. My stomach twists as I take in her split lip, black eye, and the purple bruise erupting on the right side of her face.

“Oh, Charity,” I whisper.

“I thought I was going to die, Elyssa,” she whimpers.

The thought of losing Charity fills me with deep-seated dread. I can’t even imagine a world where she doesn’t exist.

“But you didn’t die,” I point out. “You’re right here. With me. Now, come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

She’s wearing a tight black faux leather dress. It’s got a built-in bustier corset that pushes up her ample breasts and clings to her curvy figure like a second skin. I notice a few bloodstained rips at the hem.

I’ve always worried that this very thing would happen to Charity one day. Being a prostitute in Las Vegas isn’t easy, but no amount of pleading can get her to change lines of work.

She always said that sticking to the high rollers actually keeps her safe. That men with influence, money, and power don’t bother hurting the working girls.

I always argue the exact opposite. Powerful men don’t care about who they hurt because they’ll never have to answer for it. They do what they want out in the open and walk away laughing.

I just never wanted to be proven right.

I lead Charity to one of the empty rooms in the back of the shelter and sit her down on the hard, single bed. She’s still crying but silently now. Her right eye has swollen completely shut. It must hurt terribly.

“Let’s get you out of that dress,” I suggest gently.

We don’t talk as I help her get undressed and clean her up. She just sits there like a rag doll, moving when I tell her to, but otherwise staring off at the opposite wall as though she’s in some sort of trance.

The damage isn’t limited to her face. I find a nasty indigo flower blooming across her lower abdomen and more bruises snaking up and down her legs.

Anger momentarily blinds me, but I push the red spots away and try to focus on Charity and what she needs right now. Once she’s wearing a pair of grey sweats and an oversized t-shirt, I sit down next to her on the bed.

“You want to lie down?”

She shakes her head without looking at me.

“You want something to eat or drink?”

She shakes her head.

“You want to tell me what happened?”

Just when I think she’s about to shake her head, she turns to me, with tears still slipping from her one good eye. “How bad is it?” she asks.

“Your wounds will heal,” I tell her, taking her hand. “Trust me. The bruise will clear, your eye will open, the scars will go away.”

“I… I won’t be able to work ‘til they do.”

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