Suddenly I can’t stand the thought of their blood on her.
I look at her again and consider for one moment not doing it. Not cleaning her. Because when she wakes up wearing my clothes what will she think I did? Given what I saw today and what I know must have happened to her over the course of most of her life, I can’t blame her.
But I won’t allow any part of them to stain her, so I undo the few buttons on the dress. Then, not having any way to pull it off her without moving her, I grip the two sides and rip them apart with one tug. I tear away the thin straps, set the pieces of it on either side of her, and look at her.
She’s naked underneath. I knew she was. But seeing her like this, in my bed, this woman with breasts fuller than her frame would suggest, her stomach flat, skin stretched tight over protruding bones, pale, flawless skin right down to the V between her legs, it’s fucking with me.
Fuck. What is wrong with me? This is Mara.
But she is not a little girl anymore.
I already knew this, so what the fuck is my problem?
I force myself to focus on the damage. Because it’s not quite flawless skin, is it? Not really. I see the healed scars. Not too bad, but still, the fact they are there at all pisses me off.
I swallow, my eyes falling to the slit of her sex. My breathing is shallow, uneven and I make myself look away but only after noting the hair is gone. She’s been shaved bare for them.
For those bastards.
That’s the part I concentrate on. Not this woman’s body she’s grown into. Not the beautiful face made gaunt from malnourishment and constant stress. I focus my energy and my rage. Rage at those men in that penthouse. Rage at Petrov. And Felix Pérez. At all the men like them including my uncle-father. And I clean her, reciting their names over and over in my head.
I lift one arm, wipe it down. Do the same with the other. There’s a small gold bracelet on this one. I don’t take it off. As I move to her body, I try not to see her curves, not to feel the softness of her skin beneath the washcloth. Try not to watch her nipples tighten as I wipe away the filth of the men who’ve touched her.
I clean her legs, her feet, scrub the dirt from the bottoms. I keep my thoughts on those bastards as I part her legs and clean between them. This part is harder. But it’s when I’m finished with the front and roll her onto her side that I freeze. That my blood comes to a boil, and I fist my hands so tight the washcloth drips water onto the mattress.
“Fucking. Bastard.”
Because here, too, are more scars. Some deeper across her shoulders, her upper back. Her ass. But the thing that is getting this visceral reaction out of me, that has me gritting my teeth hard and vowing vengeance for the thousandth time is the mark on her hip. Fresh. Not yet healed. Probably infected.
A letter P branded into her skin.
Branded.
Fucking burnt into her skin.
4
Mara
Consciousness comes slowly. It’s like I’m in a thick fog at first. This is always the case when I wake from a drugged sleep. I think it’s my mind’s way of protecting me. Making me feel like I’m safe for just a little while longer.
I hear a sound, water running, and people talking in the distance. Or maybe a TV. I’m lying on a bed. A different bed than mine. And I’m warm, the blanket over me comforting for its weight. I don’t recognize the scent around me. Petrov always smelled faintly of food masked by too much cologne. This isn’t that smell. This is the smell of a man. Of leather and sandalwood and something almost tangibly dangerous. But this scent doesn’t turn my stomach. It makes me want to inhale deeply.
I blink, my eyelids heavy, and slowly open my eyes just as the sound around me changes and a door opens.
With a gasp I bolt upright and stare at the man entering the room. Because I remember where I am. That warehouse-like building. I remember the soldiers who stormed the penthouse and killed everyone in it. Remember this man, the one with the leather eye patch—the one claiming to be Dante—who rescued me from that hell.
Who then drugged me and put me in this bed.
“Good morning,” he says with what I can hear is false cheer.
Morning? I glance to the windows, see the gray sky, the heavy clouds. It doesn’t look like morning.
“Well, evening, really,” he corrects as if reading my mind.
I turn back to find him watching me. Steam bellows out of the bathroom behind him. He must have been showering. That’s what the water was. The other sound is a TV. A sitcom maybe. I hear the audience laugh on cue.
“There’s a bottle of water for you. You’re probably thirsty.” I glance at the bottle of water on a makeshift nightstand beside the bed but don’t touch it. “And hungry. Just let me get dressed and I’ll make us something to eat.”
I turn back to him. I am both thirsty and hungry. But I’m not sure if the water is drugged.
“It’s not drugged,” he says, and I wonder if he can read my mind. “I don’t want to drug you again.”
Then why did you? I want to ask but don’t.
He looks at me for a moment longer and I wonder about his eye under that patch, wonder how he got the deep gashes across his face.
He buckles the belt on his jeans as he heads toward the table where a pile of clothes is stacked. I take the bottle, twist off the cap and drink as I watch him because I’m too thirsty not to. I take in his powerful, naked back. Watch how his muscles work as he moves. So different than anyone I’ve seen. I also see the scars. See the bandage wrapped around his arm with the faint pink of blood.
He got shot getting me out of that penthouse. That has to mean something, doesn’t it?
He chooses a shirt then turns and heads toward me. He slips his arms into the charcoal button down. He hasn’t wiped the droplets of water off his shoulders, and they leave dark spots on the shirt. He tucks the shirt into his jeans never once taking his eyes off me. I feel my face go hot.
“You slept all night and most of the day. Do you feel better?”
I look down at myself then, notice it’s not the dress I’m wearing but an oversized hoodie. I lift the blanket a little to peek underneath. Okay, that’s it. Just the hoodie.
“Mara?”
My gaze snaps back to his and I’m about to tell him I’m not Mara when I remember we’ve had this conversation. Remember what he’d said about Lizzie’s eyes being green. Mine are blue. And the birthmark. I remember that too. Lizzie used to say I must be special to have a star on the back of my shoulder. It was more pronounced when I was younger but it’s still there. We used to pretend that maybe my father was a king from a far-off land of magical beings.
Dante sits down on the bed. I draw my legs up and after buttoning his shirt, he rolls up the sleeves wincing when he pushes the one over the bandage.
“Did you touch me?” I ask, trying to keep my eyes level on his. Trying to focus on the good eye and not keep looking at either the patch or the scar. Not wanting to care that he’s hurt. I notice he tries to turn the good side of his face toward me. Like he’s trying to hide the damaged half.
“I cleaned you up as much as I could while you were sleeping then put you in one of my hoodies so you wouldn’t be cold. I have some clothes for you though. I thought you’d want to put them on yourself after a shower.”