Fractured Souls (Perfectly Imperfect #6)

“Let’s go get you some water,” I say and head out of the bedroom.

I carry the girl into the kitchen. She doesn’t let go while I get a bottle of water from the fridge and walk toward the cupboard to take a glass. I do it with one hand since I’m still holding her with the other one, afraid she might slip and fall.

“Want to come down and drink your water?” I ask.

She squeezes her arms tighter around my neck. I look at the glass I placed on the counter, then at the bottle standing next to it. Okay. I have no fucking idea what to do.

“Listen, mishka, the doctor said you need to drink something. Please don’t make me force you.”

The arms around my neck tighten, then loosen, and I carefully put her down. The girl stands in front of me, clutching the blanket with her hands. Her head is bent down, hair has fallen on either side of her face, hiding it from view.

“Here.” I pass her the glass of water and take the medicine out of my pocket.

The second I place the pills on the counter, the girl abruptly steps back.

“They’re painkillers. Look.” I take two pills from the bottle, throw them into my mouth, and offer one to her.

She stares at the pill on my palm, steps backward again, and bumps into the kitchen island.

“Okay.” I put the pill and the bottle on the counter and hold the glass of water out to her. “Just water. All of it, please.”

When she drinks the water and hands the glass back to me, I nod and take it. “Good. Do you want to take a shower?”

The girl doesn’t reply.

There isn’t much light in the kitchen. I usually keep all the blinds down during the day because that’s when I sleep. I tilt my head to the side, trying to gauge the look on her face. She seems confused. I know she can speak, so I don’t understand why she’s not answering any of my questions.

“Do you want to shower?” I try again.

She bites her lower lip and something close to frustration passes across her face, but she doesn’t reply. Not even a nod. What am I going to do with her? There is mud on her right shoulder and arm, and some in her hair. Probably from when she fell on the street.

“All right, I’ll take you to get a shower. Nod, mishka.”

An exhale leaves the girl’s lips, and she nods. I turn toward my bedroom, but immediately feel a tug on my T-shirt and throw a look over my shoulder. The girl is right behind me, holding the blanket with one hand and clutching the hem of my T-shirt in the other.

She follows me across the living room and into my bedroom, hanging on to my shirt all the way. When we reach the bathroom, I nod toward the cabinet on the right. “You’ll find towels and some basic toiletries there.”

The girl remains behind me, still gripping my shirt. I turn to leave, but a low whimper stops me in my tracks. When I look over my shoulder, I find the girl with her lips pressed tightly together and her eyes wide and searching my face.

“Want me to stay?” I ask.

She doesn’t reply. Not that I expected her to. But her eyes peeking between the tangled dark strands and boring into mine say enough. Without thinking, I reach out to sweep the hair off her face, but abruptly pull my hand away when I realize what I’m doing.

“All right. I’ll wait here.” I face the door. “Let me know when you’re done.”

Nothing happens at first, but a couple of moments later she releases my T-shirt. I hear her pee and flush the toilet. The shower turns on shortly after.

I stare at the door in front of me, thinking. I’m no expert on mental health, but I know that her behavior is way off. It seems the total opposite of what I would expect from a woman who’s experienced sexual assault. I assumed she wouldn’t want to go within a ten-foot radius of an unknown man. I didn’t expect this, and I’m not sure how to behave.

A sound of rapid breathing, like she’s hyperventilating, reaches me. “Is everything okay?” I ask over my shoulder without looking toward the shower.

There is a sniff and more heavy breathing. I finally look inside the stall and see the girl sitting on the floor with the blanket still wrapped around her. She is frantically scrubbing the washcloth over the inside of her legs. The skin there is so red, it looks raw.

“Fuck.” I dash across the bathroom, get into the shower, and crouch in front of her. “That’s enough. You’re clean.” I take her hand and untangle her fingers from the washcloth. Almost reluctantly she lets it go, loosening her hold on the blanket at the same time. The wet mass falls off her shoulders. “It’s okay.”

The overhead spray is scorching hot as it rains down on us, but her body is shaking. I scoop her into my arms and step toward the bathroom vanity, carefully setting her down on the counter. The towel I used earlier is hanging on the wall next to me. I grab it and wrap it around her shoulders.

“Mishka, look at me,” I say and grasp her chin between my fingers to tilt her head up. “I need to take off my T-shirt or I’ll get you wet again.”