And then, suddenly, he’s gone.
Stumbling back. Swearing. Grumbling as he admits defeat and leaves.
But Lea’s still screaming in pain. On unsteady legs I turn my attention to her and the man shrouding her like a nightmare.
He’s all over her, smothering the side of her face into the mattress with a hand that threatens suffocation.
“Stay away from me!” she shouts, her voice cracking.
He doesn’t even blink. Just crowds her again and grabs her by the wrist like she’s a rag doll.
She fights. God, she fights—kicking, twisting, trying to wrench herself free. But he yanks hard, dragging her halfway off the bed.
And then it happens.
Her hip slams into the edge of the frame with a sickening, hollow crack. The sound is sharp and final, like something splitting open.
She screams, only once, but loud enough that her voice ricochets through me, and then collapses.
Her leg folds beneath her at the wrong angle. Her body goes rigid, then limp. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Just wide, panicked eyes and shallow, gasping breaths.
I know that sound.
I know that kind of pain.
Something inside her broke.
And something inside me does too.
He leans over her again, reaching for her like she’s still his to take.
I don’t think. I move. Staggering but moving all the same.
The tray from earlier is still on the floor. I grab it and swing—wild, clumsy, but full of something I haven’t felt in days; rage.
It connects with the back of his head, and he grunts against the pain, stumbles, and turns toward me.
“Get away from her!” I slur, my voice raw and shaking.
He lunges, but I swing again—this time catching him across the jaw. Blood sprays in an arc, then he’s staring at me, stunned, like he’s seeing me for the first time.
And maybe he is.
Because I’m not the girl they drugged anymore.
I’m not the one who lies still and waits.
He spits on the floor and bolts, slamming the door behind him. And in the wake of his actions a sickening silence crashes down.
I drop the tray and fall to my knees beside Lea. She’s trembling, her face pale and slick with sweat.
“I can’t move,” she whispers. “Nell… I can’t move my leg.”
I look down. Her thigh is twisted, her pelvis already swelling. She’s broken. Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. But physically, in the most brutal way possible.
And it’s not just an injury.
It’s a line in the sand.
