His lips are swollen, his bottom one split open and caked with dry blood. His face is a bloodied, broken mess. He barely looks like the man I know.
He moans in pain when I wipe away the blood from his mouth. “Shh, it’s okay. I’m here now, and I w-won’t let anyone hurt you a-again.” I’m trying to be strong, but seeing Saint this way does something that injures me beyond repair.
“No,” he groans, the corded veins in his neck popping as he tries to escape my touch. “Don’t, don’t touch me.”
“Saint, it’s me. Willow,” I coo, unable to stop stroking him, wanting to take away his pain.
“You’re not real,” he pants, shaking his head, but it lolls to the side as his strength is fading.
For him to be so weak, it’s clear Oscar has given him something. This is the only way he could keep him chained
