Mayhem (Deathstalkers MC #5)(24)

Her lips part, her gaze focusing and landing on me.

There you are.

"Where did you go?" I keep my distance, fighting the urge to touch her. Heat rushes to my fingers. I want to pull her into my arms and hold her, comfort her. I want to take away all the pain etched across her face.

"What do you mean?" She frowns, the action distorting her face as the right side, the side with the most swelling, hardly moves.

"You were gone. Completely out of it."

Her eyes dart back and forth, searching my face. "I . . . I don't know."

I nod. "That's okay. Did you eat?"

Her head gives a small shake and she looks away.

"Why not? There's plenty of food."

She sits upright crossing her arms in front of her protectively. "Because"-she swallows hard, her tongue darting out to the split on her lip-"I didn't know what I was allowed to eat."

The last part is a whisper. "You didn't . . ."

Fuck me. This is not good.

What the hell has Dylan done to this poor woman?

"Jasmine." I chance touching her, moving my hand to rest on her leg, but she pulls away like my touch is an intrusion. "You don't need to ask for permission to eat food."

"It's the rules."

Her eyes are downcast, her arms shaking. God, what I wouldn't give to just pull her to me and wrap her up. It is either that or I call off Wrench and search the streets until I find the motherfucker myself. With neither of these things being an option, I sit and wait for her to continue.

"I didn't know your expectations or I would have worked to meet them. I was going to clean, but I didn't know where things were and I didn't want to go through your things and mess stuff up."

That's it.

I can't do this.

I jump to my feet, making my way to the kitchen, closing the door behind me and sink my teeth into my fist to keep from growling or punching the wall. I pace back and forth. 

What am I going to do?

My stomach twists, a hot shiver racing down my spine. Whatever Dylan did, he broke that beautiful woman. That painful, pathetic excuse for shit ripped her apart, destroying what she would have been before, to mold her into his . . . his . . .

Slave.

I swallow past the lump in my throat.

That's all she was to him. He stole any part of her that was unique, and happy. He took her trust and manipulated it into something ugly, training her to believe that love was something brutal. And she took it. Walked willingly through the flames, and for what?

Scrubbing a hand down my face, I lean over the counter and take a couple of deep breaths, remembering the fights, the sound of broken glass, the sobs that echoed through the house despite my mom's attempts to hide them. Being forced into a lifestyle that you don't want or approve of can break you. It can strip your personality, layer by layer until all that is left is an empty shell. Shattering you until you are unrecognizable.

My phone rings. "Yeah," I mumble.

"How's it going?"

"Rough, Whip. Rough."

"He broke her, didn't he?"

I sigh, moving over to the closed door, listening for signs of movement. "I don't know what to do."

"Want me to send Lucy over? If there's anyone who knows about having to overcome the life you were forced into, it's her."

I think about what he said for a minute. I don't know that Jasmine would trust Lucy, but I don't know if she trusts me right now, either. She may never be able to trust another man after what he put her through. Perhaps having a female to talk to might help. Then again, it might do more harm. I have no fucking clue.

"That could work. It has to be just her, though."

"Okay, I'll go fill her in. She'll be there soon."

The line clicks and I open the door slowly, my eyes going to the broken girl still huddled on my couch. "Jasmine, come in here please." I try to level my voice. I don't want her to sense the irritation because I know she'll blame herself for it.

A moment later, she stands at the entrance to the kitchen, keeping her gaze on her feet.

This is so much worse than I thought. "Look at me."

She looks up, her eyes still blank. Her cold stare set me on edge. Her eyes were as immobile as her body; as if he'd beaten the life out of them, too.

"A friend of mine is coming over. Her name is Lucy." I look at her, taking in her disheveled appearance, the dried blood on my shirt, the patches where her wounds had seeped and fused with the cheap cotton. "Would you like to take a shower? Get cleaned up?"

She nods at me.

"Do you need me to help?"

She shakes her head. I want to hear her voice. I want to be able to pull her out of this, but the longer she stands in front of me, the harder it is to imagine that I'll be able to. "Go ahead. The bathroom is next to the bedroom you were in."