"Lady?"

She looked at him blankly, shivering, huddled close to the heat lamp, her eyes glazed and terrified, hardly aware. He flinched, pained, protective instincts surging like nausea in the pit of his stomach. Lucivar moved slowly, carefully, keeping his hands in view.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he promised her in the softest voice he could manage with his temper jumping under his skin. Damn them. Damn them to the deepest corner of Hell.

She stared at him, through him, biting her lower lip until he could see blood leaking out, though she hardly seemed aware of it. She gathered the rags of a shawl around her shoulders and huddled away from him.

"Lady…" He tried to remember her name. "Katharine. I swear on the Darkness I won't hurt you. Let me take care of you."

She looked up at her name. Her eyes, grey and bright once, were blank and empty. His heart ached. Her tongue flicked nervously across her lips. "Don't – want."

Lucivar felt as if he'd been stabbed, as if he were bleeding. Damn them. Damn them. Even with the fading bruises and the shocked expression, her glazed eyes and tangled hair, it was easy to see that she had been a beautiful witch. Was still a beautiful woman. But no longer a witch.

He clenched down on his jaw to keep the snarl from escaping, leashing his anger. It would only frighten her, wouldn't do anything to the people who'd done this to her, wouldn't change that it would happen again in the future.

He called in a blanket and offered it to her. "Here, Lady. Take this, at least. Please."

She cowered away and he moved closer, gently, adjusting the blanket and reaching out. She flinched, but when he settled it around her shoulders and moved quickly back, she looked at him for a long moment, confused and thoughtful.

"Thank you," she said at last, softly.

"You're welcome." He watched her, pained. He found himself picturing her, her blond hair tangled, sapphire eyes dulled and glazed, broken…

No! He felt himself twitch and took a deep breath through his mouth. She was safe. Far from here. Thank the Darkness. He'd know if something happened to her. Wouldn't he?

He shook the thoughts off. "Lady," he said, persistently. He could hear her humming to herself, too low for him to make out the tune or the song. "Will you come with me? I can find you new clothing and a room…"

Her eyes widened in alarm. "Not the room," she said in a hoarse, frightened voice. "Don't take me back there."

"Shh, no, a new room," he said, keeping his voice even. His wings rustle, agitated. "Don't worry. I won't take you back there. You need a safe place to stay." Away from these scum. Away from these bitches who call themselves Queens and Priestesses. Away from the bastards who would do something like this to any witch and still claim they protect and serve…

He kept the snarl out of his voice with a great effort. "I will take you somewhere safe. And warm." She was shivering so much. He swallowed hard, picturing her narrow shoulders shaking, curled in a cold corner somewhere far away, whispering to herself to fend off sleep and the nightmares, her small, graceful hands with the nails bitten to the quick…no. He would have felt it, he would know, Daemon at least would know…he'd have to know.

She was watching him closely. Her eyes seemed a little clearer. "Is something wrong?" She inquired, and she almost sounded whole.

He shook his head. "It's nothing," he said hoarsely. "Just worries."

She didn't ask any further. He stood up and moved a few steps away, giving her room to get up without being too close to him. He just had to hope she wouldn't run away. He could see some of the other witches, clustered in a corner, watching him, laughing, their hands to their mouths, amused at his show of compassion for this not-witch.

Damn them. He hated them. He hated them so damn much. Let them laugh. Let them think what they liked about why he helped them. Let them laugh behind their hands. He wished they were all dead. He closed his eyes, bit down on the snarl, and checked to see that she was following. His stomach churned at the way her beautiful eyes stayed fixed on the floor, as though following the pattern, her steps stumbling as if she'd just learned how to walk. Worst was the fear rolling off her, tensing his muscles every time a male walked by, hardly even noticing her, looking at Lucivar only with the scorn afforded a bastard pleasure slave.

It was a relief to be out on the streets. The air still stank, but it was cleaner, and here the psychic scent of the bitches didn't rub and grate on his temper. He took a deep breath and strode down the street, listening keenly for her footsteps behind him. She followed, at her own stumbling pace, and he slowed his steps to be sure she didn't get too far behind.

He counted the houses to be sure he had the right one and knocked twice on the door. Katharine stood shivering at the bottom of the stairs, and he shifted anxiously at the wait, raising a hand to knock again before the door opened.

"Yaslana."

He nodded, curtly, stepping aside. "Lady Katharine," he said, softly, keeping the anger out of his voice. The woman here watched him as warily as she did the other males. She wouldn't understand that his anger wasn't like those who brought broken witches here after they became a nuisance rather than a reminder.

The lady – he didn't even know her name, not even that was safe – stepped out and held out a hand to the broken witch. Katharine, he reminded himself. She still had a name, if nothing else. Still had her name. Katharine cringed, the fear intensifying, and Lucivar felt his stomach and shoulders clench together with the need to protect that was now completely useless. What else could anyone do to her that was worse than had already been done?

"Come inside, Lady. You'll be safe here." Her voice was completely different than it had been, gentle, soothing.

Katharine drifted toward the door and Lucivar took two steps back. The lady looked at him and her voice changed again. "Get out of here. Your business is done, Yaslana." Lucivar bowed curtly and turned away, unhappiness tightening his face.

Katharine turned her head as she left, looking at him, her eyes gray, her tongue flicking out across her chapped lips. Her voice was hoarse and barely audible.

"Thank you…"

Lucivar bowed his head to her. "You're welcome, Lady," he said, grateful for the evenness of his voice, and turned back. The bitches would be angry if their pet Eyrien wandered too far too long.

He looked back just as the door closed, the setting sun glinting off her hair making it golden, and he imagined blue eyes staring blankly at him, puzzled, lost, wandering. He choked on that, swallowed hard. No. It wouldn't happen. Ever. Other witches – but he would not see it happen to her. Not to Witch.

The anger surged and he turned furiously, wheeling and slamming his fist into a wall. It hurt and he could feel it sting, see the bright blood on his knuckles. He stared at it and clenched his teeth viciously together.

He wouldn't see her broken. He would take care of as many broken witches – endure as much fear and wariness as he needed to, if only, if only, he never had to see her broken.

If she was whole, nothing else would ever matter. Life or death, anything…

If she was whole, that was enough.