I took a few seconds to work up the nerve, swore quietly, put my shaking hand on the handle and pushed. The door creaked open slowly, noises of anguish amplifying as I stepped through.

I peeped my head cautiously around the door just as a chair hit the wall to my left. Undeterred, I slid through and carefully shut it behind me. In the centre of the room stood Tudor, my Tude, with his back to me, in a bloodied white T-shirt, ripped so badly that the scratched skin on his back was visible, gashes peppering his beautiful tattoos.

I inched closer to him as he kicked broken furniture, cushions and other debris around what I assumed was once Boleyn's pink-and-white bedroom. I noticed that the cream carpet had patches of blood in certain areas and the furniture was now mostly in pieces, photos scattered around like confetti.

He didn’t know I was there.

"Tudor?" I spoke in a shaky voice, worried at his reaction to my intrusion.

He stilled, his back muscles bunching, his shoulders high and his breathing erratic. He slowly turned to face me, his upper lip swollen and smeared with blood, a black eye forming on his beautiful face and red welts carved into his cheeks. He turned white and just stood there, watching me in silence.

I held out my hand, willing him to take my offered comfort. "B-Babes, are... are you okay?" I was moving slowly towards him, hands still outstretched.

He released a painful cry and practically ran the short distance between us to wrap me tightly in his arms. I began to cry with him as I held his injured body in my arms. I couldn’t even comprehend what he must have been through.

He was shaking and his head was tucked into the nook between my neck and shoulder. He was crying, crying so hard. I stroked his closely shaven head, trying to soothe him.

His legs buckled and he collapsed onto his knees, taking me with him, all the time gripping me tight. The fight in him instantly drained away. His hands slid to my waist and he wept – all I could do was hold him close.

It took ten minutes. Ten minutes to let it all out, ten minutes of holding him tightly in my arms and ten minutes to stop the crying. With a final shudder, he pulled back and lifted his head, his eyes severely bloodshot from all the released emotions and his face all battered and bruised.

I sat staring at him, trying to control my rage towards the man in the police car who I assumed had hurt him. He tried to read my eyes, searching my face for a sign that I still wanted him, before tentatively leaning forward and kissing me. It was soft, brief and full of need, and this time, I kissed him right back.

He pulled away, his hand pressed to my cheek as he looked around the room. I followed his gaze with my own, surveying the chaos and destruction. Tudor cleared his throat, his voice cracked and strained. "I need to get out of here."

"Of course," I whispered, and I stood and took his hand leading him out of the carnage.

When we were out in the hallway, Samantha and Henry rushed over. Henry wrapped an arm around Tudor's neck and pulled him into his chest. They were both struggling with their emotions and clung onto each other for support.

Henry pulled back, bracing Tudor in his arms. "Are you okay, little bro?"

Tudor nodded weakly.

Henry swallowed and whispered. "Thank you, again. You shouldn’t have to keep dealing with this shit. Somehow it always falls on you."

Tudor bowed his head once in acknowledgement.

Samantha moved in and kissed his cheek and then moved to kiss mine. I smiled weakly at her, and Tudor took my hand in his, leading me to a door that led to the basement. “I need to be alone right now with Tash, I… just need some time away from all that,” tilting his head in the direction of Boleyn’s trashed room.

Henry tapped him on the arm and let us past, and we descended the stairs to Tudor’s basement. It was unlike any basement that I had ever seen – it was practically a palace. It was bigger than most houses and it was decorated with wood and leather. A total man-cave, complete with separate kitchen and living area, but I loved it. In any other circumstances, this would have been a total turn-on, but these were not normal circumstances… These were unprecedented, these were… Well, I wasn’t entirely sure. I was still completely in the dark to exactly what had happened and what it all meant.

Tudor led me through the dark-wood-and-chrome kitchen and sat us down on a huge black L-shaped couch, never once releasing my hand and never once uttering a single word. I rested my head on his shoulder, giving him the time he needed to talk, or not talk – I wouldn’t push this time. This time it was up to him.

I honestly didn't know how long we stayed in the same spot, my head on his shoulder, his hands holding both of mine as if they were a lifeline. It was obvious that he needed time to cool down, and I was happy to just be there as a support.