Chapter 105


    A+A++


    Behind me I hear Taylor breathe a sigh of relief.


    And it’s echoed in mine.


    Oh, thank God.


    Slowly I move toward her and pick up the gun, slipping it into my jacket pocket.


    Now that she’s no longer an immediate threat, I need to get Ana out of the apartment and away


    from her. Deep down I know I will never forgive Le for this. I know she’s unwell—broken, even.


    But to threaten Ana?


    Unforgivable.


    I stand over Le, putting myself between her and Ana. Still not taking my eyes off Le as she


    kneels with quiet grace on the floor.


    “Anastasia, go with Taylor,” I say.


    “Ethan?” she whispers, and there’s a tremor in her voice.


    “Downstairs,” I inform her.


    Taylor is waiting for Ana, who doesn’t move.


    Please, Ana. Go.


    “Anastasia,” I prompt.


    Go.


    She remains rooted to the floor.


    I step beside Le—and still Ana won’t move. “For the love of God, Anastasia, will you do as you’re


    told for once in your life and go!” Our eyes lock and I implore her to leave. I can’t do this with her


    here. I don’t know how stable Le is; she needs help, and she might hurt Ana.


    I try to convey this to Ana with my beseeching look.


    But she’s ashen. She’s in shock.


    Shit. She’s had a fright, Grey. She can’t move.


    “Taylor. Take Miss Steele downstairs. Now.”


    Taylor nods and makes a move to Ana.


    “Why?” Ana whispers.


    “Go. Back to the apartment. I need to be alone with Le.”


    Please. I need you out of harm’s way.


    She looks from me to Le.


    Ana. Go. Please. I need to take care of this problem.


    “Miss Steele. Ana.” Taylor holds his hand out to Anastasia.


    “Taylor,” I urge. Without hesitation, he scoops Ana into his arms and leaves the apartment.


    Thank fuck.


    I let out a deep breath and caress Le’s filthy, matted hair as the door to the apartment closes.


    We are on our own.


    I step back. “Get up.”


    Awkwardly, Le rises to her feet, but her eyes remain on the floor.


    “Look at me,” I whisper.


    Slowly, she lifts her head, and her pain is visible on her face. Tears spring to her eyes and start to


    trickle down her cheeks.


    “Oh, Le,” I whisper, and I embrace her.


    Fuck.


    The smell.


    She stinks of poverty and neglect and homelessness.


    And I’m back in a small, badly lit apartment above a cheap liquor store in Detroit.


    She smells of him.


    His boots.


    His unwashed body.


    His squalor.


    Saliva pools in my mouth and I gag. Once. It’s hard to bear.


    Hell.


    But she doesn’t notice. I hold her as she weeps and weeps and weeps, snot-sobbing all over my


    jacket.


    I hold her.


    Trying not to retch.


    Trying to banish the stench.


    A stench so achingly familiar. And so unwee.


    “Hush,” I whisper. “Hush.”


    When she’s gasping for air and her body is racked with dry sobs, I release her. “You need a bath.”


    Taking her hand, I lead her to Kate’s bedroom and the ensuite. It’s roomy like Ana said. There’s a


    shower, a bath, and a selection of expensive toiletries on disy. I shut the door and I’m tempted to


    lock it; I don’t want her to run. But she stands, meek and quiet, as she shudders with each dry sob.


    “It’s okay,” I murmur. “I’m here.”


    I turn on the faucet and hot water buckets into the spacious bath. I squirt some bath oil into the


    cascade, and soon the stifling fragrance of lilies is oveing Le’s stench.


    She begins to shiver.


    “Do you want a bath?” I ask.


    She looks down at the foaming suds and then at me. She nods.


    “Can I take off your coat?”


    She nods once more. And, using only the tips of my fingers, I peel it from her body. It’s beyond


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    salvation. It’ll need burning.


    Beneath, her clothes hang off her. She’s wearing a grubby pink blouse and a pair of grungy cks


    of an indeterminate color. They’re also beyond rescue. Around her wrist is a tattered, soiled


    bandage.


    “These clothes, they need toe off. Okay?”


    She nods.


    “Arms up.”


    Dutifully sheplies, and I pull off her blouse and try not to register my shock at her appearance.


    She’s emaciated, all jutting bones and pointed angles, a sharp contrast to the Le of old. It’s


    sickening.


    This is my fault; I should have found her earlier.


    I tug down her cks.


    “Step out.” I hold her hand.


    She does, and I add her cks to the pile of rags.


    She’s shaking.


    “Hey. It’s okay. We’re going to get you some help. Okay?”


    She nods but remains impassive.


    I take her hand and undo the bandage. I think it should have been changed; the smell is putrid. I


    retch but don’t vomit. The scar on her wrist is livid but miraculously looks clean. I discard the


    bandage and dressing.


    “You’ll need to take those off.” I’m referring to her grubby underwear. She looks at me. “No. You do


    it,” I say and turn around to give her a modicum of privacy. I hear her move, a scraping of her ts


    on the bathroom floor, and when she stops I turn around and she’s naked.


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