Callum straightened, taking a shaky breath.
"Come on," he said, voice rough. "We're going to Principal Ramsey. We're reporting this."
Lara stiffened but didn't argue. She simply nodded, small and obedient, as he helped her up again.
They walked the empty halls toward the administration wing, Callum's hand hovering protectively near her back without touching. He could feel every pair of invisible eyes watching, every whisper of scandal already taking root.
Principal Ramsey barely looked up when they entered.
Callum laid it out: how Nate had found her, her ripped clothes, her bruises.
Ramsey sighed. Pinched the bridge of his nose like it was just another headache.
"We'll investigate," he said, tone clipped. "Thank you for bringing it to my attention. Miss Evans, you're dismissed. Mr. Hayes, you too."
Dismissed.
Just like that.
Callum stared at him, disbelief thick in his chest. "That's it?" he said, voice dangerously low.
"We'll handle it internally. No need to escalate and bring negative attention to the school," Ramsey said, already reaching for another file on his desk.
Callum wanted to break something.
He turned to Lara, jaw clenching so tight it hurt. "Come on. I'll take you home."
Ramsey barely glanced up. "Make sure she gets home safe."
Callum didn't answer. He just led Lara out, his steps sharp, biting against the polished floors.
They reached his car in silence. He opened the passenger door for her, waiting until she was seated before slamming his own door shut.
The engine roared to life.
He gripped the steering wheel hard enough his knuckles whitened as he pulled out of the parking lot.
"Unbelievable," he muttered. "They just... dismissed it. Covered it. Like it's nothing."
Lara stayed quiet, staring out the window.
"You could've been killed," he snapped, harsher than he meant. "And he's worried about 'negative attention'?"
He was breathing too hard. The anger clouded his head, made it hard to think straight.
"We're going to the police," he said firmly. "I don't care what Ramsey says. We're filing a report."
"No," Lara said quickly, turning to him. "I... I just want to rest."
He looked at her, really looked — pale skin, dark circles, the hollow way she curled into herself.
It broke something inside him.
"Lara," he said, voice trembling with how hard he was trying to stay calm. "You have to tell me who did this."
She said nothing.
He pulled over in front of her apartment building and turned off the car. The engine ticked in the cooling air.
"Tell me," he said again, softer now. "Who the hell hurt you?"
Still silence.
Callum scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to get himself under control.
"Fine," he muttered. "Let's get you inside."
He helped her out, carrying her bag, supporting her when she wobbled. Her apartment was small but clean, the kind of place where the walls felt thin and loneliness thick.
Callum guided her to the couch.
"Stay there," he said. "I'll make you something to eat."
She didn't argue. Just sat there, small and quiet.
He moved around the tiny kitchen, grabbing whatever he could find — soup cans, bread, a kettle for tea. He worked quickly, almost violently, trying to pour all his useless fury into something that could help her.
When he set the bowl of steaming soup in front of her, she whispered, "Thank you."
He sat down across from her, watching her try to lift the spoon with trembling fingers.
He didn't say anything.
He just stayed.
And promised himself that somehow, someway, he would make whoever hurt her pay.
Minutes passed.
The soup went mostly untouched. Lara set the spoon down with a soft clink and tucked her knees against her chest on the couch, sleeves swallowed around her hands.
Callum exhaled, his fists tightening uselessly on his thighs. He couldn't just sit there. Not while she looked like she might shatter from a single wrong word.
"Come here," he said, voice low, steady.
Lara blinked at him. Her bottom lip trembled, but she unfolded herself slowly.
When she stood, the oversized shirt she wore slipped slightly off her bruised shoulder. Callum's jaw locked tight at the sight—purpling marks marring her pale skin.
Without thinking, he reached out and adjusted her sleeve back up, his fingers barely brushing her.
She flinched—then went very still.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he said, softer than before. "Never."
Lara swallowed, her throat bobbing.
Callum hesitated, then said quietly, "Do you want me to call your parents? Maybe they can—"
"No." Lara's voice was immediate, sharp despite its softness. She shook her head, hair falling into her eyes. "They'll think I'm making this up again. Just… crying for attention. Like before."
Callum felt something splinter inside him. A slow, painful crack that made him want to pull her into his arms and never let her go.
He crouched down in front of her, meeting her gaze carefully. "I'm sorry," he said, the words rough on his tongue.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then Lara whispered, "I want to take a bath. Please… can you help me?"
Callum blinked, startled. But he nodded.
He guided her gently to the bathroom, every step cautious, every glance protective.
At the threshold, she paused, turning to him with wet, tired eyes. "You're the only one who ever takes care of me," she whispered.
Callum closed his eyes briefly, willing himself to stay calm, to stay steady—for her.
"I'm not going anywhere," he promised.
Lara hesitated, then with shaking fingers, she started to unbutton her blouse.
Callum's face burned instantly, panic rising in his chest. He spun around sharply to give her privacy, stepping toward the door.
But a sharp cry of pain stopped him cold.
He turned back quickly. "Lara? What's wrong?"
She was struggling, her blouse half-undone, exposing the delicate lines of her collarbones and a teasing glimpse of her stomach. The sight made Callum's mouth go dry, a rush of heat pooling low in his gut.
"I need help," she whispered, her voice breaking.
He realized — her shoulders were red, swollen, and tender-looking. She couldn't lift her arms properly.
Callum's heart hammered against his ribs.
I'm just helping her, he told himself fiercely. This isn't—
But it didn't stop the heat flooding him.
He stepped closer, hands trembling as he carefully, slowly, peeled her blouse off her shoulders, inch by inch.
His fingers brushed the nape of her neck, sending a jolt down his spine so sharp he nearly gasped aloud. The bra she wore was simple—pale, delicate, with a small satin bow between the cups—and somehow it made her look even more breakable. Even more beautiful.
Stop it, he growled at himself inwardly. She's hurt. She's trusting you. Don't you dare ruin this.
Her skin, bruised and bare, sent fire through his veins.
By the time he managed to slide the blouse off, Callum couldn't breathe right.
He turned away immediately, facing the wall, fists clenching at his sides. Even without looking down, he knew the front of his slacks was tenting, hard and shameful.
Thank God Lara was sitting, her back to the sink, too tired to notice his struggle.
Callum squeezed his eyes shut, fighting for control.
Shame clawed up his throat. How could he feel lust—filthy, hungry—when her body was covered in bruises, when she was trembling in pain? He was supposed to be better than this. Supposed to protect her, not… want her.
He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood.
Then he heard her small voice, so soft it barely reached him.
"Can you… undo my bra?"
Callum stiffened, every muscle locking.
"I can't do that," he said hoarsely, voice cracking against his own restraint.
Lara shifted slightly, wincing. "I can't lift my arms," she whispered. "Please?"
Callum's hands curled into fists at his sides. Slowly, painfully, he turned around.
She was sitting there, vulnerable and bruised, her back arched ever so slightly to offer him access to the clasp.
Lust clouded his brain, thick and choking. He fought it, hated himself for it.
I'm just helping her, he repeated silently.
With hands that shook, he reached out and found the clasp between his fingers, undoing it carefully. As the bra slipped free, exposing more of her battered skin to his gaze, he turned away again immediately, shame burning him alive.
He exhaled roughly, gripping the edge of the sink to steady himself. He walked out the bathroom and left her to her own devices.
He couldn't lose control.
Not with her.
Not like this.