Nixon’s POV
"Stand still."
The command left my throat raw, scraping against the humid air of the bathroom. Scout did not move. Her spine straight, a rigid line of bone and tense muscle underneath the torn, bloody fabric of her dress. Crimson streaks had dried into dark, crusty tracks across her bare shoulder blades.
I reached for the zipper.
Her body locked instantly. The sudden stiffness in her shoulders travelled straight down her back, a silent scream of absolute resistance.
"Relax," I muttered.
She did not. She shifted her weight, a tiny, miserable twitch of her frame, but the steel in her muscles remained tight.
I caught the metal tab of the zipper between two fingers and pulled down. The teeth parted with a sharp, rhythmic click. Piece by piece, the ruined cloth fell away to r
