CHAPTER 305

CHAPTER 305
WINTER

I managed to take care of business, slow and awkward, every movement pulling at the stitches in my side.

The gown kept threatening to slip, but I tucked the loose ends into the sling on my arm and hoped for the best.

When I was done, I sat there for a second, staring at the sink just a few feet away.

It wasn’t far. 

Just a few shuffling steps. 

Surely I could manage that on my own.

I gripped the handrail bolted to the wall, knuckles whitening, and pushed myself up.

My legs wobbled immediately—

And wave of dizziness crashed over me, the room tilting sideways, and I squeezed my eyes shut, breathing through my nose until it passed.

When I opened them again, the sink was still there, mocking me with its normalcy.

Water. Soap. Simple things that suddenly felt impossible.

Keeping one hand on the rail as long as possible, I shuffled forward—small, careful steps.

Until I made it.

I leaned against the sink edge with a shaky exhale, right hand fumbling to turn on the faucet.

The water ran cold at first, then warmed, steam curling up in lazy wisps.

I glanced up.

My reflection stared back—pale, hollow, almost unrecognizable.

Both eyes were still ringed in deep purple that had faded to sickly yellow-green at the edges, lids puffy and heavy.

My lip was swollen and split, scabs dark and ugly.

Bruises bloomed across my cheeks, my jaw, my throat—finger-shaped marks that hadn’t fully faded yet.

My hair hung in greasy, tangled strands, dull and lifeless.

I looked like someone who’d been dragged through hell and barely crawled out the other side.

Half dead.

That’s what I looked like.

Half dead.

Zion’s words from earlier echoed in my head—you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful—but they felt like loving lies now.

Sweet, kind, protective lies to keep me from shattering completely.

Because this… this wasn’t beautiful.

This was wreckage.

A small, broken sound escaped me—half sob, half gasp—before I could stop it.

The door opened instantly.

“Snowflake?”

Zion was behind me in a heartbeat, hands going to my waist—gentle, steady, supporting my weight before I even realized I was swaying.

“You were supposed to call me,” he said quietly.

I couldn’t answer.

Couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t look anywhere but the stranger in the glass.

Suddenly the thought hit me, one I hadn’t let myself think the first time
I’d seen this reflection.

Zion must be grossed out just looking at me.

How could anyone look at this face—battered, broken, ugly—and not feel revulsion?

Shame flooded me—hot, suffocating, choking.

I lifted my hands—slow, shaking—and tried to cover it all. Palms pressed hard over my eyes, fingers splaying across my cheeks and jaw, as if blocking the reflection would make it disappear.

As if hiding my face would make him forget what he’d seen.

Zion’s breath hitched behind me—sharp, audible, like the sight of my hands shielding my face had punched the air right out of him.

His arms, already around my waist, tightened just a fraction—not enough to hurt, never enough to hurt—but enough to pull me flush against his chest.

“Baby…” His voice cracked, low and raw, almost a plea.

He leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of my ear, his breath warm and unsteady against my skin.

“What happened? Why are you hiding your face?”

I squeezed my eyes tighter behind my palms, fresh tears leaking between my fingers.

“I’m hideous… how can you bear to look at me? Don’t you feel sickened..grossed out?”

“Snowflake…”

“No…” I cut him off, shaking my head even though it pulled at every aching muscle in my neck.

“Don’t you dare feed me that bullshit again saying I’m beautiful. Don’t. I’m not. I’m not beautiful, Zion. Look at me—really look. Stop pretending. I’m a fucking mess. I’m ruined. My face is wrecked, my body’s wrecked, everything about me is wrecked. You can’t possibly look at this—at me—and still want me the way you did before. How can you even stand it? How can you look at this face and not feel sick abd grossed out?"

Zion didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t rush to contradict me with pretty lies.

Instead his hands slid up my arms—slow, gentle—until his fingers curled loosely around my wrists, not forcing, just holding.

He didn’t yank my hands away. He waited.

Patient.

Like he had all the time in the world to prove me wrong.

“Snowflake. Listen to me. I’m not going to lie to you. I’m not going to feed you pretty words just to make you feel better. I’m going to tell you the truth—the only truth I’ve ever seen when I look at you.”

He paused, letting the silence settle, letting me feel the rise and fall of his chest against my back.

“I see the bruises. I see the swelling. I see the cuts, the scabs, the way your skin is still mottled and yellow at the edges. I see every single mark they left on you. And yeah—it hurts me. It fucking kills me to see what they did to your face, to your body, to the girl who’s supposed to be smiling and laughing and giving me shit every day. But grossed out? Sickened? Baby… no. Never. Not even for a second.”

His thumbs brushed slow, gentle arcs over the insides of my wrists.

“When I look at you, I don’t see ruined. I see survived. I see the girl who took everything they threw at her—every punch, every cut, every laugh while you bled—and she still came back."

He swallowed—hard—his throat moving against my shoulder.

“And yeah, your face is bruised. Your lip is split. Your eyes are swollen. But none of that changes who you are underneath. The fire. The stubbornness. The way you love—
The way you still try to do things yourself even when your body’s screaming at you to stop. That’s beautiful. That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I’m not pretending. I’m not lying. I’m not sparing your feelings. I’m telling you the only truth I know: I look at you and I still want to kiss every inch of you. I still want to wake up to you every morning. I still want forever with you—bruises, scars, stitches, all of it. Because none of that is ugly to me.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

“So no,” he finished, softer.

“I’m not grossed out. I’m in awe. I’m grateful. I’m so fucking in love with you it hurts to breathe sometimes. And I’m never going to stop seeing you the way I always have—beautiful. Strong. Everything. Scars and all.”

My hands trembled in his grip.

Tears slipped faster, soaking my palms.

He didn’t rush me.

Didn’t force my hands down. Just held my wrists—gentle, patient—waiting.

Slowly—shaking—I let my palms drop.

His eyes were wet. Shining.

He smiled—small, cracked, full of love.

“There she is,” he whispered.

“There’s my girl.”

I broke then—quiet, shuddering sob—and he pulled me into his chest.

“I will never let anyone fucking hurt you again,” he whispered against my scalp, voice low and fierce.

“I fucking swear it. Never again.”

He reached past me, squirted liquid soap into my right palm, then lathered it between our hands—slow, gentle circles, his fingers working the soap into mine like he was washing away more than dirt.

“It will all heal,” he whispered

“Dr. Hemming said you’ll be as good as new in a couple of months. The discoloration will fade, the ribs will knit, the cut will scar over. A couple of months, baby. That’s all.”

“A couple of months?” I echoed.

He nodded, rinsing our hands under the warm water together, his fingers never leaving mine.

He shut off the faucet, dried our hands with a paper towel—

Slowly—slow enough that I could feel every second of hesitation—he turned me around to face him fully—then cupped my face again, thumbs brushing the tear tracks away with the softest sweeps.

He leaned in—close enough that his breath ghosted over my lips, warm and unsteady, his eyes locked on mine like nothing else existed.

“How can you even stand to kiss me?” I whispered, voice cracking on the words I couldn’t hold back anymore.

His thumbs stilled for half a heartbeat.

Then they resumed—soft, steady—wiping away the tears that wouldn’t stop.

“I’ve kissed every inch of you when you were whole,” he said, voice dropping lower, rougher, thick with emotion that made my chest ache.

“And I’ll kiss every inch of you while you heal. Scars, bruises, stitches—I’ll kiss them all. Slow. Gentle. Until they don’t hurt anymore. Until they’re just part of the story we tell our grandchildren, about how we made it through. Because you’re not death to me, Snowflake. You’re life. You’re the heartbeat I almost lost and got back. You’re the reason I still breathe. You’re my miracle. My home. My everything. And I’m the luckiest bastard alive because you’re mine”

I closed my eyes—tears falling freely now—and leaned into him.

"I don’t understand. How could someone do this to another person?”

The question had been burning in my chest since the moment I woke up—since the pain meds cleared enough for real thought to creep back in.

How?

How does a person look at another human being and decide to break them like that?

His jaw clenched so hard I saw the muscle jump.

“Damien Black is sick,” he said, voice low at first, almost controlled.

“He’s not just sick—he’s a fucking monster.

He’s a sadistic piece of shit who gets off on power, on pain, on watching people beg and bleed and break. He didn’t do this because he had to. He did it because he wanted to. Because he enjoyed it. Every punch, every cut, every time he laughed while you bled—he loved it. He got hard from it. And my father—” His voice dropped even lower, colder.

“My own fucking father stood there and watched.

I want to fucking kill both of them. Slowly. I want to wrap my hands around Damien’s throat and squeeze until his eyes pop and he begs the way you never did. I want to make my father watch while I do it—make him feel every second of helplessness he forced on you. I want them to scream. I want them to suffer. I want them to die knowing they lost. Knowing they broke the wrong girl. Knowing they touched what was mine and paid for it in blood and terror and every fucking thing they deserve.”

He closed his eyes for a second—

“But they’re locked up,” he forced out.

“Cuffed. In cells. And that’s not enough—it’s nowhere near enough—but it’s something. They’ll rot there. They’ll face trial. They’ll face us. Every detail. Every mark they left on you. We’ll make sure the jury sees it. We’ll make sure the world knows exactly what kind of animals they are. And when they’re sentenced—when they’re buried under so many years they’ll never see daylight again—I’ll be right there. Holding your hand. Making sure they know they failed. Making sure they know you’re still here. Still breathing. Still winning.”

He opened his eyes again—

“But don’t worry about them,” he said.

“Not tonight. Not ever again if I can help it. They don’t get to live in your head anymore. They don’t get to take another second of your peace. They’re nothing. They’re over. And you—you’re everything. You’re alive. You’re healing. You’re mine. And I’ll burn the fucking world down before I let anyone hurt you again.”

The last of my strength drained away like water through my fingers.

My legs buckled, knees giving out completely, and I sagged weakly against Zion’s chest—

“Woah—easy, baby,” he murmured, as his arms snapped around me—one sliding under my knees, the other cradling my back—and he scooped me up like I weighed nothing.

I let my head fall against his shoulder, cheek pressing to the soft cotton of his hoodie, breathing in the faint scent of rain and him and safety.

He lowered me slowly—easing me down onto the mattress like I was made of porcelain—

“Now sleep,” he whispered, voice low and rough with exhaustion and love.

He brushed a strand of hair from my face—gentle, reverent—then pressed the softest kiss to my forehead.

“Sleep, Snowflake,” he murmured against my skin.

“I’ve got you.”