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“B-but your back?” Super proud that only one of those words stuck.

I watch closely as he lowers himself into the chair next to me, catching himself before he leans into the back of it. He tries to lean forward, elbows on his knees, but with the bandage and cast, that’s not really a good position either.

“You should still be in bed, asleep.” My brows knit together, and I have to hold myself back from flitting and fussing all around him.

The doctor appears in the doorway of the office. “Yeah, you fucking should. You need to rest, stay still to give your back a chance to mend.”

Teague rolls his eyes and addresses him over his should. “Not going to happen. We have shit to see to and not time enough to do it. Make yourself useful and get Eddie over here.”

“You want me to tell Eddie what to do? Right, like that’ll work.”

Christophe’s voice is sharp when he says, “Hibou, do it. Tell Edmond his presence is required and then go home. I’m sure Miss Cochonette will take very good care of your patient. If we need you, we’ll call.” And just like that, the doctor is effectively dismissed.

With Teague here, I feel better, almost relieved at the thought of giving up everything I’ve been hiding. “It’s not a journal, more of a file.”

“Wait,” Christophe commands, the harsh edge very much back in his voice. And for an odd amount of time, we do. After the distant sounds of the front door closing echoes in the entry way, Christophe nods.

“What was⁠—”

He leans back in his massive chair—almost a throne—and crosses his ankle over the opposite knee, the picture of zero fucks given. “I thought this might hold some aspects of a personal nature. For your benefit, I felt it best to have as few ears as possible in the vicinity.”

Christophe’s consideration is a surprise, a welcome one, because I hadn’t even thought of that. My focus was solely on unburdening myself and keeping anyone else from suffering through what Teague had.

“Thank you. That was...”

“It was necessary,” he finishes, softly but firmly.

Garrick enters the office bearing a silver coffee service among other things. “Pardon the interruption,” he says as he settles the tray and begins work preparing cups of coffee for Christophe and I. “Electrolytes and a bottle of water for you, Mr. Grey. Mr. Yore will be here shortly. Is there anything further?” Without waiting for a response, he sets a small tray of sweet treats on the desk in front of me.

“No. Thank you. When Eddie gets here, send him right in, please.” Christophe sips his black coffee, allowing his eyes a slow blink in appreciation before he settles his gaze on me, right back in business mode. “Go ahead, Tru.”

So I do. I tell the two men about how I stole one of my captor’s phones. How he’d unloaded the pockets of his jeans, setting keys, phones, wallet, and weapon on the table just outside the cell I was held in.

My hands start trembling as the words tumble from my lips, and I have to place my cup on the edge of Christophe’s desk, so I don’t spill its contents.

Teague reaches out to take my hand, pausing with his casted wrist hovering in the space between us. He places it back on the armrest of his chair and mumbles “Fucking Desmond” under his breath. The bounce of his knee that’s always present grows until his whole body is practically vibrating.

Before continuing, I stand, slide my chair right next to his, and take my place, sitting cross-legged, my hand hooked gently around the crook of his arm. The contact seems to calm his wild. And maybe mine too.

“He… When he was there… doing the things he, um, h-he liked to do to me…” Giving voice to the things I experienced is harder than I imagined it would be. Even when I was in therapy, I struggled to say exactly what was done.

“You don’t have to share that if you don’t want,” Teague says, his focus dancing between Christophe and me. “Not everyone needs all of the details—you control those very private ones.”

I lean over and press my lips to the rounded muscle of his shoulder and then rest my forehead there while I think about what to say next.

“That was the day—the last one there. There was a scuffle, banging around at the end of the hall and he, the man, stopped what he was doing to me and grabbed his things and ran down the hall. Away from the noises. I, um, I-I-I… a phone dropped. It was on the floor by the cell, and I crawled off the cot to it and grabbed it. Folded my hands around it and closed my eyes, waiting.”

“For me,” Teague adds.

“For you.” I kiss his shoulder again and then straighten in my chair, the hardest part over. “It was an older phone, smaller than the one you gave me, I was able to keep it hidden. Deep inside, my heart hinted that I was safe with you, but my world, my whole fucking world had been turned upside down and stolen by the person who was supposed to keep me safe. I-I-I didn’t know who to trust, so I kept the phone hidden. It went under a loose floorboard in the back of Winnie’s closet when I went away—to the hospital,” I clarify. There were too many times I just went away or disappeared to keep track of.

“When I was released, I had nowhere else to go, so Winnie took me in. Took care of me and kept me as safe as she could but I was broken. So broken.” Tears gather and instead of fighting it, I let them fall. In all that’s happened in the past few weeks, I’ve come to feel comfortable enough to let down some of my walls, safe with Teague right here.

“Bent, hummingbird. Never broken.” Through a stoic grimace of pain, Teague manipulates me out of my chair and into his lap, his arms wrapped carefully around me. Lips pressed to the crown of my head, he says, “At your pace, love, remember that. You’re in control.”

“I was terrified living under the same roof as Henri and Claudette. Their big parties had pretty much fizzled, but there were still people, scary people, in and out of the house all the time. I hid a lot. Moved the phone a lot. Kept it close, easy to access, but hidden away, always.

“You were there when they died,” I say pointedly to Christophe, then turn my attention to Teague recounting what we’d already discussed. “And you.” The number of times I’ve thought about that but didn’t give voice to it is a lot. A lot a lot. “I wasn’t scared, though. Never when you came to see them—I knew I was okay when you were there. But when I came down the stairs and saw that they were dead, I froze. For years, I lived in a house with known users and dealers, and the police never showed their faces. But with dead bodies, there wasn’t a choice.