Never Let Me Fall

by Abbie Roads

  He lay there unconscious, his face a deformed mass of blood and flesh.

  She knelt next to him. Her fingers trembled as she searched his pants pocket for the keys. The metal felt cold and slimy against her fingers, but she pulled it out and stood.

  Behind the bar, a cordless phone hung on the wall. She snagged it off the cradle and held it to her ear. The soft hum of the dial tone gave her heart wings. She punched in 911 but couldn’t risk waiting for a response. Underneath the phone was a giant stack of brand-new Hell Hounds T-shirts. She slid one over her head, hefted the stack in her arms, and ran back to the kennel.

  She threw the door open, letting it bang against the wall with an echoing sound as if to get all their attention. “The police are coming. They’re coming. You’re safe now.”

  For a few heartbeats, there was no sound, but then the room erupted into cheers and crying. She rushed to the girl’s cage first. Her fingers were clumsy as she fumbled with the heavy key and lock, but she got it open. She flung the door back, reached inside, and helped the girl out. She stood on wobbly, shaking legs, staring in disbelief. Helena didn’t hesitate. She unfastened the collar around the girl’s neck, letting it drop at her feet. Then she helped the girl pull the shirt over her head and thread her arms through the sleeves.

  When the girl was dressed, Helena grabbed her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. “I need you to help me.” She shoved the stack of shirts at the girl, who clutched them to her.

  Helena unlocked the women’s cages while the girl unfastened their collars and helped them put on a shirt. The girl had even started tossing in hugs and words of comfort by the time they freed the last woman.

  Together as one, all the women left the kennel, following Helena to the bar, past Big Guy’s unconscious body and then to the door with a red EXIT sign. She twisted the knob, pulled it open, and stepped out into a beautiful sunny morning. The air was cool and crisp and incredibly fresh. The sunshine against her skin felt like heaven.

  The sound of approaching sirens reached them. Her heart sang hallelujah inside her chest.

  She turned and looked back at all the women, but a woman she didn’t remember freeing stood in front of them. Her face filthy, her arms covered in bruises and her legs smeared with abrasions. Helena had just taught her how to escape.

  In that moment, she recognized the differences between the last dream and this one. No voice had paused time to tell her what to do. It had all been on her. The thought both scared her and exhilarated her.

  The shimmer faded from her flesh, leaving a profound weariness in its wake. Her legs folded beneath her, and the last thing she saw before she fell into sleep’s deep embrace was the woman standing over her, mouthing the words thank you.

  * * *

  Thomas’s heart punched against his sternum, jolting him awake. His eyes popped open to a blinding white light. The shroud of sleep, still heavy on him, made thinking difficult. The only thing he knew was that something was wrong. He could feel it in the way his innards trembled.

  In an instant, he took in his surroundings. His bedroom. Sunshine blazing bright outside, casting its cheerful light in the space. Late morning had to be snuggling up to early afternoon. His gaze darted around the room, roaming the corners and doorways. No boogeyman. No Mrs. Ellis with a gun. No one. Just him and Helen’s body twined around his.

  He inhaled in a shuddering breath to calm himself. Today was going to be a better day than yesterday. She wasn’t going to get shot. She wasn’t going to go missing. Hell, she wasn’t going to leave his sight if he had anything to say about it.

  His arm was threaded underneath her neck so she could use his shoulder as a pillow, while his other wrapped her waist, holding her tight. She lay on her side cuddled into him, her legs tangled with his, her knee only a few inches from his morning chub that was acutely aware of her nearness and straining against his pants to get closer. Everything about her curves pressed against his angles was a masterpiece wrought in living flesh.

  He’d never felt more comfortable in his whole life. Days could pass, years could pass, and as long as he could hold her like this… Well, this was all he needed. She was food and water and oxygen—everything essential. Now more than ever, he realized he’d only lived half a life until he’d spotted her in the cemetery.

  A strangled, gasping sound came from Helen. She lurched in her sleep. Her muscles went rigid, then slack. Her torso thrust up off the bed in an image he would’ve sworn he’d seen in The Exorcist. Some force, some evil abusing her body.

  She slammed back down against the mattress. The headboard cracked against the wall, loud as a gunshot.

  “Jesusgod, Helen.” Thomas threw himself on top of her, trying to contain her body’s flailing, wild movements. The instant his weight settled on her, she stilled. “Helen.” He lifted off her enough to see her face, to shake her shoulder. No response. Nothing.

  Shit, shit, shit. He straddled her and grabbed her face in his hands. “Open your eyes. I need you to open your eyes.”

  Almost as though she was obeying his command, her eyelids fluttered, then eased open.

  He bent low over her, touching noses with her. “I’m here. I’m here.”

  Up close with the sunshine filtering through the windows, her eyes looked like a strange combination of gold and silver. A color radiant and resplendent in its uniqueness.

  Their gazes locked, and he felt the connection as surely as if it were a physical touch. He tumbled into her, seeing her fear and confusion. She didn’t understand what was happening any more than he did.

  “Can you move?” Even as he asked the question, he witnessed the answer. He was a goddamned dumbass for not mentioning this to her doctor yesterday. “You’re going to be okay.” He packed as much assurance as he could into his voice and wished like hell he could believe himself.

  Tears formed in her beautiful eyes and then sprinted into her hairline as if they were trying to hide. His heart went warm and soft. “Hey, none of that. There’s nothing to be frightened about. I know exactly what to do.”

  Awww…shit. Did he just say that out loud? What the fuck? He didn’t know what to do beyond holding her, rocking her, and praying that someone or something was listening.

  Trying to not appear concerned—for her sake—he lay down alongside her on the bed. “Just so you know…” He tried to put a little lightness in his voice. “I’m a fast learner. I’m not even going to suggest taking you to the hospital.”

  Her facial expression didn’t change, but gratitude filled her gaze. She didn’t look away from him—she locked on to him, staring hard as if he carried the key to release her paralysis. He felt a bit sick at her faith in him. But then a voice whispered something in the back of his mind. And he realized what he was hearing were Lathan’s words from last night.

  It’s simple. You want your woman safe? You want her unharmed and healthy? You don’t fucking leave her side. You keep touching her at all times. Touching. That’s the only way you are both protected. Nothing—I mean nothing—can hurt either of you when you’re touching. And if she’s in the hospital, that means she’s hurt. You need to be there to finish healing her. She needs you.

  The answer she sought from him was suddenly there. There was no logical reason for knowing how to make her better; he just knew. And she was gonna be pissed.

  “You know I’d never hurt you.” He stared into her eyes, showing her the truth inside him. A truth that was more than simply not hurting her—it was loving her. Could he really be thinking love? Fuck, yes. And if she could see into him the way he could see into her, then she saw it written across his heart. “I know how to make you better.”

  Her eyes went wide and willing. Well, at least she’d be willing until he touched her.

  “I swear to you, I won’t hurt you.” His damn hand shook as it found the bottom of her long sweatshirt and slipped inside. The fir
st touch of his fingers to her flesh sent a jolt of something hot and electric and strangely satisfying through him.

  Her breath hitched. Her eyes widened in surprise and betrayal.

  “Shh… It’s okay.” And then his fingers found the ripple of the scars marring her stomach. He settled his palm there against the worst of it. A rush of something powerful and unnamable surged through him, converging in his shoulder, then sliding down his arm. It felt like cool, refreshing water pouring from him into her, but it was dry. The sensation soothed and comforted him, and he knew it was helping her. “It’s working. You feel it, don’t you?”

  Then he looked at her. Those tears she hated to cry, hated for him to see, sluiced down her cheeks, and she couldn’t do a damned thing to stop them. She couldn’t turn her face away, she couldn’t slip under the water, she couldn’t avoid him seeing her pain. And it about killed him. He felt like the world’s biggest asshole because those tears were caused by him touching her.

  He might be physically healing her, but every second of him touching her scars carved a deeper emotional wound. For a split second, he almost pulled his hand away, but didn’t. He would rather see her up and moving and angry than paralyzed.

  “Awww… Helen.” His voice sounded thick. His hand stroked over her stomach, feeling the ridges of damaged flesh. “Your scars are part of your packaging, not who you are on the inside. When I touch you, I don’t feel damaged skin. I feel the warm, vital essence of you. You are more than any mere disfigurement ever could be. You are everything. My everything.” The words didn’t come from his heart; they came from his soul.

  She blinked once, twice, three times, while more of those terrible tears he’d caused slipped from her eyes. And then she clenched her hands into fists and released. Clenched and released.

  It was working. Movement was returning to her. He got the distinct impression that she was imagining punching him, and he couldn’t half blame her. The other half of him knew the emotional damage needed healing, and maybe, just maybe this was the pain of him lancing those festering wounds to get the infection out.

  Slowly, she bent and straightened her knees. Did the same with her arms, then sat up and leaned forward as if she wanted to touch her toes, then reclined back.

  “I can’t believe how fast this worked. It took less than a minute.” Damn. He really could heal her.

  She twisted out of his arms. He fought the urge to keep hold of her but didn’t want to take away her control. Part of her mending the mental pain would be her finding her power again.

  Using the bedpost to ensure her balance, she stood. When she was upright and steady, she turned and nailed with him a glare so full of rage that he raised his hands in a gesture of innocence.

  “I’m not sorry that you’re up and moving. So you can quit with the wishing-me-dead look.”

  He saw the truth of his words hit her and then bounce off the shield of self-preservation she’d built around herself. Without a glance, she walked out of the room. He expected her to go downstairs, but she surprised him by heading down the hallway to the spare bedroom and the same bathroom where she’d been shot.

  He leaped out of bed and went after her. “Helen. Wait.” The bathroom door slammed. “I haven’t had a chance to clean up in there.” He pictured the room as he’d last seen it. Blood in the tub, blood on the floor. All of it Helen’s. The last damned thing she needed was a reminder of what had happened in there. He stood in the bedroom listening, waiting, and realized this was too familiar to what he’d gone through last night, waiting outside his bathroom door for her to emerge.

  Was this going to be the pattern of their relationship? Her always avoiding him? Him always waiting for that magic moment when she might choose to engage with him? Part of him wanted to just walk away—give her a taste of her own medicine and all that, but he couldn’t injure her in that way.

  She wasn’t avoiding him out of spite. She ran from anything that hit her emotional sore spots and limped off to lick her wounds in private. It was the only way she knew how to heal herself. What she didn’t understand yet was that he could help her heal—mind and body and soul.

  Chapter 11

  Helena leaned against the closed bathroom door as if she expected Thomas to try to break it down. But he wouldn’t. He was too calm and kind to act that way. Even when he’d touched her scars, he’d reassured her that he wouldn’t hurt her, because he’d known she’d freak out. Which she was doing right now.

  She was overreacting. Knew it. Couldn’t help it. His touch on her scars felt like he’d ripped her wide open, then reached inside to tinker around. What had she done? Run off in the middle of him putting all her pieces back together.

  A cascade of tears streamed down her face. She swiped them away.

  And that’s when she saw all the blood in the bathroom. Her blood. Oh God. It was all over the bathtub, all over the floor. The room looked like a slaughterhouse. A scream threatened to erupt from inside her. She needed to get herself under control. She needed to stop crying. What she really needed to do was leave.

  Her shirt and pants from the day before were stacked in a neat pile on the back of the toilet tank. Maybe if she weren’t surrounded by Thomas, his clothes, his house, she could think straight about getting out of here.

  In seconds, she stripped and put on her own shirt and pants. The garments felt cold and too tight against her skin, but she ignored the sensation. She opened the door. He stood there, his beautiful scarred face full of concern for her that she didn’t deserve.

  She thrust his clothes at his chest. When he didn’t take them, she let them drop on the floor and marched past him, down the hallway and down the staircase. He followed her, but she pretended to not notice.

  In the living room, she found her coat on the back of the couch. Exactly where he’d laid it after taking it off her a lifetime ago. The material felt heavy and too bulky as she put it on and zipped it up. She reached for her gloves, but he grabbed her by the shoulders. She refused to look at him. No way was she going to let him talk her out of leaving this time.

  “Look at me, damn it.” His tone was gruff and guttural.

  She tried to shrug out of his grip, but his hands were immovable. Not hard. Not hurting. Just immovable.

  “I’m not letting you go until you look at me. You owe me that much.” A plea hid inside his tone.

  If she caught a glimpse of his eyes, her resolve might crumble. But if she didn’t look at him, she suspected he’d stand there holding on to her until they were both old and feeble. Maybe that’s what he wanted. Maybe that’s what she wanted.

  She inhaled a slow breath, hoping to find some willpower in the air, but nope—none to be found. Reluctantly, she shifted her gaze up his chest, over the hard line of his jaw, over his stubble-covered cheeks. Over his beautiful scar, before circling back around to finally meet his eyes.

  Something inside clicked, locking them together. He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He closed his mouth. Then opened it again. “I know you can feel this connection.” His midnight-blue eyes blazed with little silver flecks that reminded her of stars on a moonless night. “I’m not… I’m not right unless I’m with you. You make me better. And I know I can take away your pain.”

  His words made her heart weep for them both. Him because she wasn’t the person he thought she was. Her because she desperately wanted to be his Helen. Not Helena Grayse.

  Bing bong bung. The front doorbell chime echoed through the house. She startled from the unexpectedness of it. His hands, still on her shoulders, tightened, and he brought her in closer to him as if protecting her from the sound.

  That doorbell had always been an annoying sound, but hearing it for the first time in a decade almost made her smile. Almost.

  His eyes on hers didn’t falter.

  Bing bong bung.

  “You remember my doctor friend? The one who was goin
g to stitch up your hand?” He waited for the light of recognition to go off inside her. “I think that’s him. Please stay. I want you to meet him.” Those last words were a fisherman’s net tangling around her heart.

  But she couldn’t stay. She tried to shake her head but found herself nodding instead. How did that happen?

  A smile flared across his lips, lighting up his whole face, making him and his scar achingly handsome. Oh God… That upward twist of his lips transformed everything about him. Took away the residual pain he carried and gave her a glimpse of the ornery little boy he kept hidden inside. She wanted to weep for the pain she was going to cause this man. He didn’t know that every minute he spent with her, she was hurting him. Driving the stake of her betrayal a bit deeper into his heart.

  “Thank you.” He bent down and brushed a quick kiss on her lips. He let go of her shoulders and reached to lace his fingers with hers. “Come on.”

  Before her brain could talk some sense into her body, she found herself standing next to him, holding his hand while he opened the heavy oak door. Helen grasped his hand even tighter, holding on as if he were a life preserver in a stormy sea. What if the doctor recognized her as Helena Grayse? Oh God. What if he turned out to be one of the many docs who had treated her while she was still an inmate at Fairson and chained to the hospital bed?

  A man who looked to be in his sixties stood there. Wrinkles lined his forehead and fanned out from his eyes. He smiled when their eyes met, and his friendliness only made her want to step away from him.

  “Come on in.” She and Thomas moved to let the doctor in the house. “Dr. Stone, I’d like you to meet Helen.”

  A boulder lodged itself in the back of her throat. Guilt. Every moment she perpetuated the lie of being Helen was a moment she was playing Thomas for the fool. She could bear his anger when he found out, but she didn’t want him to feel like an idiot—especially in front of his friend.