That now-familiar burn of bile rising in the back of his throat made itself known to him. Derek tried to control it by assuring himself that they were dealing with the problem—that it was not going to happen again, and his brother, at least, had been safe and untouched. Up until now, he supposed.
"She—fuck, this not how I—," he broke off, shook his head. Took a deep breath. The first time he'd actually say these words outloud. Not just inside his head. Keep talking, just keep talking. "She was attacked. In her own flat. She was—by herself, and it was a Death Eater. She never got a look at him, but…" Derek's anger was threatening to overwhelm him. He had to remember to breathe.
"She was—," Derek's hand fisted involuntarily. He could not force that ugly word out, he could not do it. "She was alone, Darien. With some psychopath who—who took advantage of the fact that she was a young girl who was alone and helpless." It hurt him further that this wasn't the end of the story, nor even the worst part to him, but he needed to breathe for a second.
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