Page 81 of Jenna's Protector
I hold her close, feeling the way her body trembles against mine. The desperation in her grip is palpable, her fingers digging into my arms as if I’m her lifeline. Over her shoulder, I scan the street, looking for any sign of pursuit, but it’s empty; the only movement is the lazy drifting of leaves pushed across the pavement by a gentle breeze.
“It’s me.” I pull back to get a good look at her. “I should ask thesame. Is it you? How…” The shock of seeing her after so many years makes my brain misfire. “I don’t know what questions to ask.”
She pulls back, her eyes searching mine, a flicker of hope amidst the despair. Dark circles are etched beneath her eyes, like permanent shadows. Her lips are chapped and cracked. There’s a rawness to her that wasn’t there before, a brokenness that makes my heart ache.
“I can’t believe it’s you. When I saw you through the window, I thought I was hallucinating. I’ve been running for so long; I don’t know what’s real anymore.”
A pang of sympathy tightens my chest. I know that feeling all too well, the sense of dislocation, of being untethered from reality.
“Come.” I guide her toward one of the tables. “Sit. Let me get you something to drink.”
She sinks into a chair, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. I move behind the counter, going through the familiar motions of brewing a pot of tea. I choose soothing chamomile rather than a jolt of caffeine.
As the tea steeps, I watch Sophia out of the corner of my eye. She looks so tiny, so fragile, a far cry from the fierce, defiant girl I remember.
She’s the only girl who stood up to Lucian, who refused to break, no matter how hard he tried. Now, she hunches over, her shoulders slumped and eyes hollow.
Her once vibrant spirit is extinguished, replaced by a vacant shell and trembling hands. Whatever wounds she carries, they’re raw and deep.
Sophia is broken.
A shiver runs through me as memories rise unbidden, flashes of cruel smiles and rough hands, the bitter taste of fear on my tongue. I push them away, focusing on the present, on the girl in front of me who needs my help.
I pour chamomile tea into two mugs, the fragrant steam curling in the air, and carry them over to the table. Sophia takes one, cradling it between her palms as if trying to absorb its warmth into her bones.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice thready and thin.
I sit across from her, my mug clasped in my hands.
“What happened? How did you find me?”
“I just saw you through the window and couldn’t believe it was you.”
“What happened to you?”
She takes a shaky breath, her gaze fixed on the swirling depths of her tea. “The night of the party, they took me. Locked me in a room, alone. I don’t know how long I was there. Days, weeks, maybe? Time lost all meaning.”
Her words send a chill down my spine, the echo of my trauma resonating in every syllable. I reach across the table, laying my hand over hers, a silent offer of support, of understanding.
“I thought I would die there.” Her voice is barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator. “But then, the door opened, and it was him.”
“Him?”
“The man who bought me. He took me and told me I was part of his private collection.”
“Private collection?”
“That’s what he called it. Said he was the curator and I belonged to him.”
Bile rises in my throat, hot and acidic. I know all too well the depravity that lies behind those words, the horror of being treated as nothing more than an object, a possession to be used and discarded at will.
“A little part of me died that day.”
“Sophia…” I reach for her, my heart splintering as she tells me her story. It could’ve been me. “How did you survive? How did…”
Dear God, it could’ve been me.
It could’ve been me.