The Carry
Julian didn't loosen his hold, not once. The weight of her against him was wrong. Too light, too limp, the shape of someone braced against vanishing. He adjusted his grip, coat wrapped tighter around her, his stride precise but edged with fury that had nowhere to land.
The night air cut sharp when he stepped outside. The city carried on, cars and lights and indifferent noise, but for him there was only her: the faint heat of her cheek against his chest, the shallow pull of her ribs, the blood smeared dark against his sleeve.
He didn't look back at the house. He carried her to the car, set her carefully inside, his hand lingering at her jaw for proof she was still there. Her eyes didn't meet his. Her silence gutted him.
He drove fast, too fast, one hand clenched white on the wheel, the other reaching once and again for her wrist. To feel the faint pulse, weak but steady.
The Bath
The suite was dark when he carried her in. He didn't turn on the lights. Her body barely shifted in his arms, silence pressing heavier than her weight.
He took her straight to the bathroom, setting her gently on the edge of the tub.
"Stay." The word was rough, almost breaking.
She didn't answer.
He turned the taps, water rushing in, steam curling up. The scent of clean heat replaced the stale bite of bourbon. He tested the temperature once, twice.
Then he knelt. He stripped his coat away, unfastened the torn dress with careful hands. His breath caught at the bruises already darkening her ribs, the cuts that still welled red. And then, lower, between her inner thighs, the faint rust of dried blood.
His jaw locked, every muscle rigid. For one terrible moment he closed his eyes, not to deny it, but to hold himself together long enough to keep his hands gentle. Rage burned hot, but he forced it inward, because breaking here would mean breaking her.
He lowered her slowly into the water. Her body sank, lashes trembling, a faint hiss of breath escaping as heat met ache.
He steadied her under his palms. The water climbed her chest, carried her weight when she couldn't. Warmth lapped her skin, clouding red, then thinning into nothing.
Julian knelt beside her, sleeves rolled, his own breath shallow. He drew the cloth along her arm, rinsing away blood, sweeping carefully over her wrist, her ribs. His hands moved steady, but inside he shook.
Her hair fanned dark against the water, eyes closed, body half-floating, half-sinking. For one breath, she looked gone.
"Lena." His voice cracked on the name. His hand cupped her jaw, forcing her eyes open. "Look at me."
She blinked. Met him, green eyes hollow but alive.
"You're here," he said, more to himself than her. "With me."
The Hollow
When the water cooled, he lifted her out, wrapped her a in thick towel. He carried her to the bed, set her down as though the act itself could keep her from breaking.
Removing the towel, he slipped one of his shirts over her, the fabric swallowing her frame. She leaned into him then. Not words, not choice, just instinct. Her head against his chest, her breath shallow but syncing to his.
He brushed damp hair from her face, tucked it behind her ear. Her eyes flickered open, hollow green, rimmed in red.
He didn't ask questions. He didn't demand words. He gave her the one thing no one else had given her: his presence, steady and unrelenting.
"Safe," he whispered. Softer than any command he had ever given. "You're safe."
Her eyes closed again, but not before a tear slid free, catching on his knuckle.
The Tether
He sat with her until her breath evened, shallow but steady, her body slack against the bed. His hand never left her hair, never loosened from its slow, anchoring touch.
The bruises, the cut on her palm, the traces on her thighs. These were facts he couldn't undo. But her breathing, the rise and fall of her chest, was his tether.
Proof she was still here.
Proof he hadn't lost her.
The room was quiet. A lamp glowed low, shelves lined with books, a chessboard mid-game on a side table.
He leaned forward, forehead near hers, voice low, threading through the silence.
"You come back to me," he said. "Always back to me."
Her body shifted faintly, the smallest exhale warming his skin. Not words, but not absence either.
The Sanctuary
Julian looked at her. Not at wounds, not at silence, but at her.
He held her tighter. For once, he didn't think about rules, or obedience, or control. He thought about how light she felt in his arms, how easily she could slip away.
And somewhere inside him, quiet, dangerous, undeniable; rose a truth he had never intended to feel:
That he might love her.
The memory cut him sharp: Lena, immaculate in black, walking into his office as if no one could touch her. Unshakable. Untouchable. The woman who stood before glass walls and silenced a room with nothing more than presence.
Now, in his arms, she was pale and trembling, bruised and bloodied, her silence heavier than any plea. The contrast gutted him. It made the truth land harder: she was breakable, and he could not allow her to break.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Then Lena stirred, the first true sign of life since he had carried her from that house. She moved by choice.
A faint press of her lips against the corner of his mouth, fragile as breath. Her whisper followed, fragile but steady, a truth of her own: "You are my sanctuary."
And before he could answer, she slipped into sleep against his chest.
Julian stayed awake, holding her.
Knowing he would not, could not, let go.