“I’ll take you to a clinic. We can make an appointment for today.”
I nod and smile the best I can. “Thank you. But I’m not ready.”
Going to a doctor means touching. Poking. Prodding. An internal exam. And the outside world. It’s too much.
“You tell me as soon as you’re ready, shorty. You hear me?” His words are filled with venom. Fiercely protective. “Snap your fingers and I’ll be all over it.”
“I will. Thank you.” I swallow. Nod some more. “Then there’s the dresses… I can’t wear them. Luther always forced us to—”
“I know.” He cuts me off. “I remembered too late and I’m sorry. That’s why I didn’t want you seeing any of this. When we first arrived, I made the fucked-up assumption that you kept wearing the baggy clothes you ordered online because of a sizing issue. But it’s deliberate, isn’t it?”
My heart squeezes. My lungs and stomach, too. “Yes.”
“See? I fucked up. I’m not the best woman whisperer, but I assume you already knew that.”
I huff out a laugh at his charming self-deprecation. He’s too good to be true, which scares me a little. I know who this man is. What he is—a criminal, a murderer. It’s the heart of gold that sets him apart from the family he works for.
“You’re doing just fine.” I back away, hoping the distance will stop my chest from humming.
“You’re walking out on me?” He glances at me from the corner of his eye, disappointment heavy in his voice. “Are we finished with this conversation already?”
“No.” I keep walking until I reach the far side of the room, then lower myself to the carpet and sit facing him. “The opposite actually. I’m getting comfortable.”
He juts his chin in subtle acknowledgement, but those eyes speak of relief. He’s happy I’m stepping out of my comfort zone. He’s pleased with me, and I both hate and love the sense of accomplishment it inspires. “I’m trying, Luca. I’ll admit I’m not doing as well as I’ve led you to believe.”
“Really?” His mouth lifts, subtle and sarcastic. “You haven’t led me to believe you’re doing well at all, shorty. I know you’re struggling. You’re not sleeping well either, are you?”
“No.”
“Nightmares?”
I nod.
“I’ve woken you a few times,” he admits. “I’m not sure if it helped though.”
My throat restricts. My cheeks heat. “You’ve woken me?”
“Don’t worry; I didn’t disturb your privacy. All I did was call your name from my room, or the hall if you were determined not to wake up.”
The heat increases, the fear disappearing as embarrassment takes hold. “But how did you know I was having nightmares?”
“You cry out. You’ve called my name a time or two, as well, which speaks volumes of the horrors you must be enduring.” He shoots me a sly grin. “But all jokes aside, the first time I heard you I thought you needed my help. That something serious had happened. But once I reached your door, you were yelling for your brother, and then at Robert.”
The humiliation increases, scarring me. I break our gaze, unable to look him in the eye when my burden on him continues to grow.
“If you’re interested, there might be something in one of these bags to help you sleep better.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to be sedated.”
“No, not sedatives. After your first few restless nights, I did some googling. There’s an air diffuser around here somewhere. It’s got some type of oil that’s meant to help. It’s a lavender blend or something.”
This is ridiculous. Seriously, ridiculous.
This man, with his cold calculation and criminal ties, is googling sleep aids and buying air diffusers. It’s enough to make a delirious laugh bubble in my chest.
He narrows his gaze on me. “Did I say something funny?”
I stop fighting and let loose with an embarrassed chuckle. “You’re this big, tough, aggressive bad guy. I never would’ve imagined the words ‘lavender blend’ coming from your mouth.”
His grin stops my pulse.
So many men have grinned at me. Leered. Ogled. So many that I never thought I’d appreciate the beauty of a male’s face again. I thought I’d always find their interest threatening. But when Luca smiles at me, the routine spike of apprehension fades into a strange sense of accomplishment.
“Laugh all you like,” he drawls. “I’m only going to get more stir crazy the longer I’m stuck inside these four walls.”
And there goes my happiness.
Poof. Gone.
“I know you’re not ready to get out of here,” he adds. “But how would you feel about writing a list of goals and attempting to take on one at a time?”
I glance down at my fingers tangled in my lap. I don’t feel good at the prospect, not good at all, even though the uncharacteristic sweetness is appreciated.
I want to stay within my comfort bubble. Unhappy, unhealthy, yet cozy in the familiar surroundings. “Can we leave this for a few days?”
“I don’t think we can. It’s time to start moving forward.” There’s an edge of authority to his tone. “These goals can be small or big—you decide. And we only need to work toward achieving one a day.”
“We?” I raise my gaze, my self-loathing growing at the determination in his expression.
“I’m in this for the long haul. We can do it together.”
I return my attention to my hands and pick at the quick of my thumb. Truth is, I hate disappointing him. I have ever since the first day we met. And now a lifetime of events have passed between us. He rescued me, risked his life to save me. He deserves better than my resistance. I should be giving him my full compliance. If only it didn’t feel like launching myself into a complete free fall.
“Which leads me to my hidden motivation.” He pushes to his feet and walks toward me, towering above me with an outstretched hand. “I’m hoping the first task on your list might be to help me out.”
“Help you out how?” I pause, not eager to place my hand in his. Part of my reluctance is due to my past. There’s more than that, though. I don’t fear him hurting me. My hesitation stems from something different. Something I can’t pinpoint.
When I finally give in, sliding my palm against his, I hold my breath.
His warm, calloused fingers grip mine. Tight. Strong. He pulls me effortlessly to my feet, making me shiver.
“Don’t look so scared.” He drops his hold and takes a step back. “You stitched my head in Greece. I’m only hoping you’ll work your magic to help take those suckers out.”
4
Luca
She follows me to the kitchen where I grab a notepad, pen, and a chair, then continue into the main bathroom. The blade, antiseptic, tweezers, and pile of tissues I attempted to use yesterday are still spread out on the counter as if waiting for the torture to begin.
Just like in Greece, when I hadn’t been able to see the injury on the side of my head to stitch the wound, I now can’t remove the cotton firmly embedded in my skin. And I’ve left it too long for the removal, not wanting to ask Sarah for help and also not feeling comfortable pushing Penny. But she’s given me an inch. Maybe it’s time to strive for a mile.