Made

He was going to be polite, invite him in, offer a drink, but Laila beat him to it, pushing past him to grab her duffle bag from Nick's hands. She had almost turned away when he grabbed her by the arm with one hand and backhanded her with the other.

"It's almost like you've forgotten all of your manners, Laila. Aren't you gonna invite me in?"

Michael stepped in before it could go any further, ushering Laila behind him with his arm.

"Can I help you, Nick?" he asked.

"Just thought I'd see how you two were getting on. You know," he said, lowering his voice. "Just a backhand will keep her in line. You haven't got to leave her in an alley for anyone to find. Especially not with her track record." Nick smiled. "Isn't that right, Sweet Pea? You've been very naughty in the past."

"Why are you doing this?" she asked.

He laughed, a chilling bark. "I'm just trying to help you," he said. "You should be thankful. Not everyone would be so forgiving after having to clean your messes."

"I think you should go, Nick," Michael said, feeling Laila start to tremble behind him.

He put his hand to his chest and frowned, mocking offense. "How terrible," he said. "But I can tell when I'm not wanted. Try not to kill anyone this time, Laila. Not even your white knight would want you then."

As soon as the door closed, Laila sank to the ground, sobbing.

It took her two hours to calm down. He calmly stroked her hair, marveling at her silent acceptance of his touch. She sat on the opposite end of the couch from him at first, then inched closer, until she was crying in the crook of his arm, eventually settling for putting her head in his lap while she shook with silent sobs. He kept stroking even when she stopped, and her breathing steadied, not knowing what else to do. Nick's cold and empty eyes still stood out at him. Not for the first time that day, he questioned what the fuck he had gotten himself into.

"I'm just like him," Laila murmured.

He shook his head, then realized that she couldn't see him. "I doubt that," he said.

"I kept wanting to prove myself to him," she said. "That I deserved him, was worthy of his name. I've done terrible things, and he still didn't want me."

"Laila, he's insane."

"So am I." She smiled, swallowing a fresh bout of tears.

"H-"

"I made my own choices," she said, interrupting whatever he was going to say. "I deserve this. I've earned this hell."

She smiled at him, and wiped her face. Without another word, she walked away, heading up the steps to the room she had claimed as her own. He watched her go, sighing.

As soon as she was out of sight, he grabbed her duffle bag, opening it hastily and spilling its contents. What he assumed was her papers were all the way at the bottom, held in a large manilla folder. The first thing he noticed was the name, "Alessia Zabat," different from the "Agne" he'd seen before, and vastly different from Laila. His address, his home address in the UK, was listed under residence, with the house he was renting in LA being a suggested alternate. He was listed as her next of kin, relationship, "owner". He shuddered. It was official.

The next pages had her arrest records, one for murder, which had been declared self-defense, and a few for assault. But that was just for the US. Her records for the UK had two assaults, six break ins, and one public intoxication. Of all of those, she'd been released, and no charges were ever filed. Some even came with formal apologies.

After that was her medical records. Bruises, scrapes, broken ribs, concussions, she'd had it all. She'd been hit by a car twice, the first time being a failed suicide attempt. But those were both in the UK, and she'd been treated by the same nurse. The US pages were practically a textbook, ending with a stabbing. Permanent damage to the lungs had been recorded. May need periodic check-ups to avoid infection. She'd been lucky to escape wither her life.
The mental health records were even worse. Major Depressive Disorder, PTSD, possible sociopathy, self-harm, EDNOS. She was all over the place. No reasons were given, as she'd flat out refused to seek psychiatric help multiple times.

A page just titled "Sweet Pea" followed. She was a bartender, or at least, had started out as one for a strip club mogul on the East Coast. From there, she became like a bodyguard for him, only her job was to protect the money he was owed, often violently. That was where the stab wound came from. Just a hazard of the job. "Partner: Rene. Do not trust."

To cap off the whole file were pictures of tattoos, which he assumed were hers, though he'd had yet to see any. She was covered in them, if the photos were any indication. She had one on the back of her neck, just the number 4, a crosshair on her neck, and the words "Freedom is slavery, and war is the peace that I know" wrapped around her waist. Those caught his eye, and he wondered how he couldn't see them before.

He put the file back the way it was, and stuffed that and her clothes back into the duffle bag. With a sigh, he flopped into the couch, waiting for sleep to claim him. He had to cook, make food for the both of them, get her to eat, do something, but only felt like taking a nap. It was a fitful sleep, plagued by her face and the words of the files, but he welcomed it anyway, the brief respite from the shithole he had dug himself into.

He was fucked.