He checked the time. She’d been in the shower for twenty-five minutes. That was too damn long. He went down the hall to check on her and called through the open bedroom door, “Tracey?” Had he ever called her by her name before? He stepped into the room. The bathroom door was open, and he heard the shower running. His chest constricted at the sound of Tracey sobbing. His hands fisted by his sides as he stepped closer, standing outside the door with his back to the bathroom. “Trace?”

Her sobbing continued.

Fuck.

The water had to be cold by now. There was no steam, no warmth. He went into the bathroom, stepping over the pile of clothes and shoes on the floor, and grabbed a towel. “Tracey, I’m going to turn the water off.”

Her sobs came from down low, and he realized she was sitting on the shower floor. Christ, that killed him. Keeping his eyes trained high, he reached behind the curtain and turned off the water, then pushed a towel through to her. “Can you wrap this around yourself, baby girl?”

She took the towel, and he heard her pushing to her feet, her sobs intermixed with painful winces. He wanted to kill those fuckers. When the EMT was checking her over, Diesel had seen cuts on her back and legs and bruises blooming all over her pale skin. He looked around the bathroom for clean clothes, but she must not have brought any in, so he tugged off his shirt and handed it through the curtain. “Put this on.”

A few seconds later she pulled open the curtain. She was wearing his shirt, which hung to her knees, and the towel was on the floor by her feet. Her face was bruised and scraped, makeup smeared beneath her eyes, running down her cheeks, and she looked so fucking sad, it killed him. He grabbed another towel and wet the corner of it to clean her up. Her lower lip trembled, fresh tears spilling down over his fingers as he wiped off her makeup.

“I can fight,” she said shakily.

“I know you can.” He knew she spent time at a gym and took one-on-one martial arts classes with an ex–Navy SEAL, and he also knew how useless that training was if not practiced at a level that mirrored real life.

“I hesitated.” Her voice cracked, more tears falling, but her underlying anger came through. “I should’ve—”

“Stop.” He tipped her chin up. “You are not going to beat yourself up because two assholes got the upper hand.” He dropped the towel to the shower floor and lifted her into his arms as gently as he could, which apparently wasn’t gently enough because she winced, which cut him to his core as he carried her into the bedroom.