Chapter 40: Scarred Devotion
Sammy’s breathing had finally settled into the deep, slow rhythm of true sleep. The nightmare that had chased her into his room had receded, banished by the solid wall of his body curled around hers. The blue glow from the power light painted her shoulder in a faint, cool sheen.
Rebel was awake. He hadn’t slept a wink.
Every time he was near her, it was like a physical ache, a sweet torture he’d fantasized about for years and now held in a vise-grip of pure restraint. His arm was numb under the weight of her, but he wouldn’t move it for the world.
In the quiet dark, his gaze traced the lines of her face—the dark sweep of her lashes against her cheek, the parting of her lips, the place where her hairline met her temple, the spot he’d kissed. His heart hammered a traitorous beat against his ribs.
His hand, the one draped over her, lay still on her stomach. The worn cotton of his shirt—his shirt—rose and fell with her breaths. His fingers twitched, an almost imperceptible movement. He didn’t think about it. The need was older than thought.
Slowly, so slowly the movement was glacial, he slid his hand up. The fabric of the shirt whispered against her skin and his palm. He found the hem, his fingertips brushing the bare strip of her waist.
She didn’t stir.
He traced the warm, smooth skin of her flank, up toward the slight curve of her ribcage. His touch was feather-light, a ghost of contact. He felt the first one before he saw it—a subtle ridge, a line of texture different from the rest. In the near-darkness, he followed its path, a pale, thin seam against her paleness. Then another, parallel, a fraction of an inch away. A coded message of pain carved into her.
They were healed. But to him, in this moment, they were fresh wounds bleeding. The monster hadn't just taken her; he’d signed her. Branded her with a blade to make sure she—and anyone who saw—would remember. The surgical precision of it, the cold deliberation, made Rebel’s vision swim with a red haze. He imagined killing Robert Gray again he fantasized about it.
His thumb smoothed over the marks. She was so thin. He could feel the distinct outline of each rib under her skin, the delicate architecture of her. She’d always been slender, but this was different. This was sharp edges and hollows. The stress, the fear, the aftermath—it had stripped her.
The ache in his chest wasn’t metaphorical. It was a real, physical pang, a twist behind his sternum so sharp he had to close his eyes and breathe through it. She needed food. She needed sleep without shadows. She needed to feel safe in a way he wasn’t sure she ever would again, because safety was an illusion he’d spent years meticulously crafting for her, and it had still failed. The evidence was right under his trembling fingers.
She stirred, a faint whimper escaping her lips. Her body tensed minutely against his.
Instantly, his hand stilled, then retreated, slipping back down to rest innocently over the shirt on her stomach. He pressed his lips to the crown of her head, his voice a low, vibrating rumble in the dark.
“Shhh. I’m here. He’s not. He’s never getting near you again.” The promise was grit and gravel.
She relaxed, melting back into him with a sigh.
He lay there, holding her, watching the digital clock on his desk shift from 3:47 to 3:48. The rage was a live coal in his gut, but beneath it was a deeper, more desolate current. Guilt. He’d watched her apartment, her shop, her routes. He’d monitored her dates, scared off the unworthy ones with well-placed glares or rumors. He’d built a digital fortress and called it care. And while he’d been watching pixels on a screen, some real, breathing animal had slipped through the cracks of the real world and taken her.
His protection had been a performance. An obsession dressed up as devotion.
When the first gray light of dawn began to dilute the blackness outside, painting the room in murky shades of charcoal, he carefully disentangled himself. She murmured a protest, her hand grabbing clumsily at the empty space he left. He tucked the sheet around her and she settled, her face burrowing into his pillow.
He pulled on a clean t-shirt and padded silently to the kitchen. The house was cold, the floors leaching the warmth from his feet. He moved with a quiet, focused efficiency. He scrambled eggs with cheese, toasted sourdough until it was golden, sliced avocado. He arranged it on a heavy white plate, a small tower of normalcy. He poured a large glass of orange juice. Then he stood for a full minute, staring at the food. It wasn’t enough. It was just breakfast.
He carried the tray back to the bedroom. She was still asleep, one arm thrown over her eyes. He set the tray on the desk, the smell of toast and butter cutting through the static of the room. He crouched by the side of the bed, not touching her, just watching her sleep.
“Sammy,” he said softly.Nothing.
He reached out, brushing a strand of short blonde hair from her forehead.“Hey. Time to wake up.”
Her eyes fluttered open. They were hazy, disoriented for a second, then they cleared and fixed on him. A slow, soft smile touched her chapped lips, “You’re still here.”
“Where else would I be?” He nodded toward the desk. “Made you breakfast.”
She pushed herself up on her elbows, the sheet pooling at her waist. His shirt gaped open, and he saw the quick flash of those pale lines on her ribs before she pulled the fabric closed. She looked at the tray, then back at him, her expression unreadable. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes,” he said, the word flat and final. “I did.”
She slid out of bed, his shirt falling to mid-thigh. She took the plate and the juice and climbed back onto the bed, crossing her legs. She ate slowly, methodically, like she was completing a task. He sat in the desk chair, watching her, his own hunger forgotten.
“You watched me eat a lot,” she said around a mouthful of egg. “It used to drive me nuts. Made me think I had food on my face.”
“You usually did.”
She smiled a little, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She finished everything on the plate, drank all the juice. She set the empty glass down with a definitive clink. “Thank you. That was… really good.”
“You need to eat more.”
She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. The defensive posture.“I know. My body just… forgets to be hungry sometimes.” She shuttered, “He only fed me enough to keep me alive. To keep me weak.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He couldn’t stop looking at her. The reality of her, sleep-rumpled and scarred and alive in his bed, was overwhelming. “We need to talk about what happens next.”
She went very still. “Okay.”
She swallowed hard. Her knuckles were white where she gripped her knees. “Okay.”