Dominic

She'll be the death of me!

Dominic

A jet of water rained down on the other side of the wall.

Rising, I closed the laptop, then made my way to the bathroom door, turned the handle, and found it locked.

"That better not be the shower," I said, loud enough for her to hear over the rushing water.

"I'm just going to rinse off my legs."

"Open the door." I rattled the handle.

This time, I wasn't concerned about my little birdie flying away because the bathroom contained nothing but walls of tile or sheetrock—no windows for her to make a grand escape through. But the thought of her stepping inside the shower and getting the wound wet, when not medically cleared, annoyed the shit out of me. Not to mention, since being medicated, she could lose her balance and fall.

"Unlock it." I tapped my knuckles against the wooden door. "Or I'll kick it in."

"What? You don't have any lock picking skills?" Her feet lightly patted against the tile, giving away her movement. "Even Filipe can pick a lock."

"Mina, I'm waiting."

"Yep, and you can keep right on waiting." Her voice rose over the water.

Fuck. She'll be the death of me yet.

Her words sparked an idea. A quick examination of the door lock revealed a slit that would unlock the door from this side if turned. Grabbing my keys, I toyed with a couple of them but then opted for something thinner, a dime.

I extracted a coin from my pocket, inserted it in the slit, jiggled the handle, and then opened the door.

Head bowed, naked, and with her back to me, she stood inside the shower stall, holding the removable shower head in one hand, spraying soapy suds off the front of her body, her legs, and then her feet.

The bandage on her back remained dry and in place, to my relief.

Making my way up to her, I wondered just how close I could get before she realized I had entered the bathroom. As I approached, bruises of various shades and sizes on the backs of her legs, torso, and arms caught my attention.

The rage monster inside me awakened and wanted only one thing—to obliterate those who had hurt my little doe-eyed sparrow, starting with her uncle, the Mad Dog himself.

She gathered her hair with one hand, then with the other still holding the portable shower head, she sprayed down her scalp, letting the water run down her dark locks. Releasing her hair, she reached for the shampoo dispenser. She winced, then staggered back, stumbling out of the shower stall.

A small cry escaped her parted lips, and that's when I realized she was softly crying.

The shower head slipped between her fingers, and it clanged against the pebble tile next to the drain. She reached for the stall frame, but her grip slipped.

Reactive, my arm shot out, and I drew the back of her body to the front of my frame.

She yelped.

"You're safe," I whispered. "I've got you. You're not alone."

She exhaled a sigh of relief and relaxed in my arms.

"Let me help you," I said softly in her ear, "care for you."

She nodded in response, and I led her back to the shower stall.

"Hold on." I placed her hand on a metal rail, then picked up the nozzle.