Chapter 30
30:
Christina sat in the corner, still as stone, her eyes locked on the bloodied bodies scattered across the floor. Damn… Dylan wasn’t one to waste time.
Dylan caught her dazed look and traced her line of sight. The carnage wasn’t subtle—twisted limbs, lifeless faces, blood pooling beneath them like ink spilled from a shattered bottle.
He mistook her stillness for fear, and something unfamiliar twisted in his chest—sympathy and maybe even regret for letting her witness such a scene. His brow creased. Quietly, he crouched beside her. Without a word, his calloused palm moved to gently cover her eyes.
“Don’t be afraid…” The edge in his voice was gone, replaced by something softer. “I’m here. You’re safe.”
With delicate insistence, he turned her face away from the bodies, guiding her gaze to him, shielding her from the worst of it. “Don’t look,” he whispered. “Just think of it like a bad dream, one you’ll wake up from soon.”
His eyes—dark, burning, unwavering—held hers in a quiet command, pulling her back from the brink. The usual frost in his eyes had thawed—scorched away by something unseen—leaving behind an unfamiliar warmth. Something almost gentle.
He waited, unmoving, until Christina gave a soft, shaky “Alright.” Only then did he allow himself a silent breath—one he hadn’t realized he was holding. She was still fighting. That was a good sign.
He tucked the thought away like a mission directive: Therapist. Tomorrow. No exceptions. Unaddressed trauma wasn’t a wound—it was a ticking time bomb. It crept in as nightmares turning shadows into monsters. This wasn’t a fender bender or some close call. Christina had walked through hell’s front door and barely made it back out.
His jaw tightened as he reached for the ropes, fingers steady but his mind storming. Then, he saw them. The deep, angry ridges across her wrists and ankles—skin rubbed raw, welts etched like curses.
𝕋𝕣𝕦𝕖 𝕗𝕚𝕝𝕖 𝕚𝕤 𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖: gⱯ𝗅𝗇𝗈ν𝕖𝗅𝕤⧽ⅽ𝗈𝗺
Something inside him detonated. His eyes went dark, a dangerous shift rolling through him like thunder before a downpour. The Terrell family. They didn’t deserve mercy. They didn’t even deserve fear. They deserved to die miserably.
“Does it hurt?” His voice came out low—rough like gravel, but carrying a strange softness underneath.
Christina shook her head. “No.”
She accepted his help, but as soon as her feet touched the floor, her knees betrayed her. Her legs folded, weak and trembling.
Dylan caught her in a flash—arms steel-tight around her, instincts faster than thought. For the first time, his iron composure cracked. A flicker of flush—real and raw—flashed across his face like lightning slashing through storm clouds.
They froze. Her chest close to his, eyes locked, breath tangled in the sudden quiet. The air between them shifted, thick with an unspoken pull.
Seconds passed before reality reassembled.
“I—I’m fine,” Christina blurted, trying to wriggle free. But then her knee brushed a scrape, and the pain hit sharply. She hissed softly, breath catching.
Dylan didn’t let go. His gaze dropped to her swollen ankle. His frown deepened into something lethal.
“Forgive me.” Without waiting, he slid one arm beneath her knees and lifted her effortlessly into his arms. Reflex kicked in—her arms snapped around his neck, her cheeks flushing with heat.
“Seriously, I’m fine—it’s just a scratch! You’re overreacting,” she muttered, flustered. To her, these minor scrapes barely registered—they weren’t worth a bandage, let alone anyone fussing over them.
“A scratch is still an injury. I’m not overreacting,” Dylan said, his voice steady and unshakable.
Something fragile and unfamiliar stirred in Christina’s chest. Her grip on his shoulder tightened, as if holding on might keep the feeling from slipping away.
She had once given everything she had to the Dawson family. To Brendon. Time, devotion, love—poured out like water into a cracked vessel that never held a drop. And what did she get in return? Not even the ghost of affection.
She could still recall that day in the kitchen—how the knife had slipped, the sharp sting followed by a rush of blood spilling across her palm.
Brendon had shot her a cold, indifferent glance, instructed a servant to fetch the first-aid kit, and walked off without a backward look. Not once did he ask how she was—not in that moment, not ever. It was almost cruel, the contrast. Even a stranger might have asked if she was okay. But Brendon, her husband at that time, hadn’t even blinked.
And yet, she’d seen the way Brendon looked at Yolanda. Gentle hands brushing hair from her face. Soft words dipped in honey. He was capable of warmth—just not for her. Maybe that was the simple difference—love cared, indifference didn’t.
A dull ache bloomed in Christina’s chest. She had loved fiercely, given without keeping score. And in the end, she hadn’t even been worth a moment of kindness.
.
.
.
Search the -.-___-.- website on Google to access s of novels early and in the highest quality.