Chapter 3: Broken Vows
The drive to Matty’s apartment was a silent movie played through a rain-streaked windshield. Casey sat curled against the passenger door, her knees drawn to her chest, staring out at the neon blur of the city. She’d stopped shaking somewhere between the back alley and the car, a cold, hard stillness settling in its place. Matty drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting palm-up on his thigh, a bloody towel wrapped around it. He hadn’t spoken since he’d guided her past the two terrified men, since he’d locked the office door on the scene inside, his face a blank mask of grim purpose.
His apartment was what she’d expected: sparse, clean, dimly lit. A sofa, a tv, a bookshelf with nothing but manuals and a few old paperbacks. It smelled like leather and lemon cleaner. He led her down a short hall to the bathroom, flipping the light on. Harsh fluorescence bounced off the blue tiles.
“We need to…,” he started, his voice rough. He cleared his throat. “We need to get clean.”
Casey looked at her reflection in the mirror. A stranger looked back. One cheek was red where Derek had hit her. A dark smudge of his blood—or was it Matty’s?—streaked her neck. Her torn sweater gaped. Her eyes were hollow.
Matty reached past her and started the shower. Steam began to billow, fogging the mirror and softening the edges of the room. He didn’t look at her as he spoke, his focus on testing the water temperature with his good hand. “I’ll get you something to change into. You go ahead.”
He left, closing the door behind him. The silence in the bathroom was filled by the drumming of water on plastic. Casey moved on autopilot. She peeled off the ruined sweater, the damp jeans. They landed on the floor with a heaviness that felt final. She stepped into the stream, and the hot water was a shock, a scalding punishment that made her gasp. She stood there, head bowed, letting it pummel her scalp and run in rivulets down her back, stinging the fresh bruises forming on her ribs.
A few minutes later, the shower curtain drew back a foot. Matty’s arm, now bare, extended, holding a folded grey t-shirt and a pair of soft-looking sweatpants. He placed them on the closed toilet lid without looking in.
“Matty.” Her voice was a scratchy thing, unused.
He paused, his silhouette a dark shape against the brighter light of the hallway.
“Your hand,” she said.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not.” She turned, the water sluicing over her shoulders. She saw him then, properly, for the first time since the office. He’d taken off his own bloodied shirt. The dark, clotted tear across his palm was stark against his skin. More bruises bloomed on his torso, purpling along his ribs. His face was rigid, his jaw clenched so tight she could see the muscle jumping.
“You need to clean it,” she said, the words feeling odd in her mouth, practical. “It needs to be clean.”
A long beat passed. Then he nodded, once. He pushed the curtain back further and stepped in, still in his boxers and jeans. He flinched as the water hit his back, then stood under the spray, head down next to hers. The space was too small for two people. Their arms brushed. The water ran pink at their feet, swirling down the drain.
Casey reached for the bar of soap. It was plain, unscented. She took his wounded hand gently, her own fingers trembling. He let her. She worked the soap into a lather, carefully tracing the vicious cut. The skin was parted, raw. It must have hurt terribly, but he didn’t make a sound. He just watched her, his breath mingling with the steam.
When his hand was clean, she didn’t let go. She started on his arms, washing away the smears of violence. She moved to his chest, over the taut plane of his stomach, her motions slow, methodical. The water coursed over her hands, carrying away the last visible traces. She was washing him clean of what he had done for her.
His hand came up then, capturing hers under the stream. He took the soap from her. “My turn,” he murmured.
His touch was different. Reverent. He lathered the soap and began with her shoulders, his big hands impossibly gentle as they smoothed over the slope of her neck, the curve of her deltoid. He washed the blood from her skin, the phantom feel of Derek’s hands. He knelt in the water, running soapy hands down her legs, cleansing the bruises on her knees from where she’d been forced onto the couch. He was meticulous, thorough, as if this ritual could erase the memory.
When he rose, they were face to face. Water dripped from his eyelashes. His gaze was a physical weight, tracing the red mark on her cheek, the shadow in her eyes. He brushed a wet strand of hair from her forehead, his thumb lingering on her temple.
Something shifted in the steam-heavy air. The clinical need to be clean bled away, replaced by a desperate, aching need for life. For proof they were still here, still breathing, still feeling. His eyes dropped to her mouth. Her breath hitched.
He leaned in, slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. She didn’t. His lips met hers, and it was nothing like anything she could have imagined. It was soft, questioning, a fragile collision in the aftermath of so much violence. It tasted of steam and salt and mercy.
The kiss deepened, fueled by a sudden, surging hunger. His hands came up to frame her face, his injured palm cradling her jaw with exquisite care. Her arms wound around his neck, pulling him closer, her fingers digging into the wet muscles of his back. The water beat down on them, a cocoon of sound and heat. His mouth left hers to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down her throat, along her collarbone, following the path of the water. A soft sound escaped her, not of pain, but of pure, desperate relief.
He turned her gently, pressing her back against the cool, tiled wall. His body pinned hers there, solid and real. He lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist, anchoring her. The hard press of him against her core drew a sharp gasp from her lips. His eyes searched hers, a silent question in the grey storm of his irises. She answered by tightening her legs, pulling him closer, rolling her hips against him.
He groaned, a low, broken sound lost in the spray. He fumbled with the button of his wet jeans, pushing them and his boxers down just enough. He positioned himself, his forehead pressed against hers, his breath coming in ragged bursts that fogged between them.
“Casey,” he whispered, her name a prayer on his lips.
He pushed inside.
It was a claiming, a reclamation. But as he filled her, a bolt of raw, shocked pain lanced through the deepest ache of her bruises. She winced, a sharp, involuntary flinch that tightened her whole body.
He froze instantly. Every muscle in his body seized.
“Fuck—no,” he growled, the words ripped from him in a torrent of self-loathing. He pulled out in one swift, agonizing motion, his face contorted in a mask of horror. “God, Casey, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
He didn’t pull away. Instead, he pressed his forehead into the damp hollow of her throat, his arms tightening around her, holding her firmly against the wall as if she might shatter. His whole body shuddered. “I’m sorry,” he murmured again, the words a hot rush against her skin. “I wasn’t thinking. I just… I needed…”
He didn’t finish. He just held her there, under the endless cascade of water, his breaths hot and uneven against her neck. His lips pressed softly to the pounding pulse at the base of her throat, a silent apology in every touch.
Slowly, her own breathing began to sync with his. The sharp pain subsided, leaving behind the deep, throbbing ache of survival, and something else—a fierce, protective warmth where his body cradled hers. Her hands came up, one sliding into his wet hair, the other splaying across the broad, scarred plane of his back. She held on.
The water began to run cool.