Page 46 of Ruthless Possession
chapter seven
Morgan
Our house welcomes us with warm light, a stark contrast to the sterile hospital environment we've just left. Charlie stirs as Trenton carries her inside, her eyes heavy with exhaustion but wide with wonder.
"It's big," she whispers, taking in our home: the open living room, the staircase leading up to the bedrooms, the photographs lining the walls.
"It's your home now," I tell her, leading the way up the stairs. "At least for a while."
Matthew moves ahead of us, checking each room like he did earlier, a habit born from years of vigilance. "All clear," he confirms quietly.
I lead Charlie to the bathroom, running my hand under the faucet to test the temperature. Steam rises as the tub begins to fill.
"I don't have pajamas," Charlie says, her small voice uncertain.
"That's okay," I assure her, helping her sit on the closed toilet lid. "You can wear one of my t-shirts tonight. Tomorrow, we'll go shopping and get you everything you need."
Her eyes brighten at the mention of shopping, but exhaustion quickly dims the excitement. I add some of Matthew's lavender bath salts to the water, the scent filling the room with calming warmth.
"Can you lift your arms for me?" I ask, reaching for the hem of her shirt.
She hesitates, then complies, her thin arms rising. I carefully work the shirt over her head, trying not to gasp at what I see.
"Did he do this to you?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral.
Charlie shakes her head, her eyes downcast. "I fell when we were running in the woods and got an owie on my arm."
The words hit me like a physical blow. I swallow hard, fighting to keep my expression gentle. "You're safe now," I promise, helping her out of her pants and underwear.
I know kids fall, but it hurts me that she was hurt because of him trying to hide.
The bath water is just right, warm but not hot. I help her into the tub, and she sinks into the bubbles with a small sigh of relief.
"I'll wash your hair," I offer, squeezing shampoo onto my palm.
Charlie tilts her head back, closing her eyes as I work the soap through her tangled dark brown hair. It's the same shade as mine, no wonder Evan had fixated on us both.
"You have pretty hair," she murmurs as I rinse.
"So do you," I tell her, gently working conditioner through the strands. "Like a princess."
She smiles at that, a real smile that reaches her eyes. When she's clean, I help her out of the tub and wrap her in a fluffy towel, drying her with gentle pats.
"Will you brush my hair?" she asks, looking up at me with those big blue eyes.
"Of course." I lead her to her bedroom, where I sit her on the edge of the bed. The hairbrush moves through her damp locks with careful strokes, working out the tangles without hurting her.
"Does that feel okay?" I ask, watching her in the mirror.
She nods, her eyes already growing heavy. "My mom used to brush my hair."
I pause, the brush still in her hair. "You remember her?"
"Sometimes." Her voice grows softer. "She had a pretty laugh. Like bells."
My throat tightens. "That sounds nice."
I finish with her hair, then find one of my softest t-shirts, gray with a faded band logo. It hangs on her small frame like a dress, the hem falling past her knees.
