All because of Ava. And it was fucking worth it.
She’s quiet when I open the door, lying on her side and curled up like her stomach is hurting her. Her back is to me. My eyes travel the length of her small body as I walk into the room.
I feel like shit that she’s sick over this. I know she said she’s happy that he’s dead, but I still shouldn’t have told her to do that. She would have done anything I told her to do. And I had her kill a man.
Felipe was her keeper though. He was her tormentor. I can only imagine the fucked up shit he did to her. I’d want to see him dead if he’d done that shit to me. I set the bowl down gently on the nightstand and sit on the edge of the bed. It creaks and dips with my weight. She starts to get up, but I place my hand on her hip to stop her. She needs to rest.
I need to know. It’s killing me to not know what she went through. I want to understand. I need to help her.
I clear my throat and ask, “You feeling any better?”
“Much,” she answers with a small smile. She looks so sweet and innocent. Her face is still pale though. I was afraid she was having a panic attack at the table. This is too much for her. I’m a fucking prick for putting her through that.
“I’m sorry, Ava.” I take her hand in mine as she scoots closer to me, giving me her full attention. She shakes her head, but I don’t give her the opportunity to make excuses for me.
“I never should’ve told you to take the gun.” I press my lips into a straight line as I remember standing behind her, steadying her hands. “I thought it would help you. I didn’t think you’d get sick over it.”
“I’m alright,” she states, as though everything is perfectly fine. It’s not.
“You almost had a fucking heart attack at the table.” I squeeze her hand tighter. “You’re just a woman. You shouldn’t even see things like that.”
Her eyes flash with anger so briefly, I question it. I can see she wants to say something, but she’s holding it in. I fucking hate that. “Tell me.”
“It was because you told me to forget everything that happened. I wasn’t sure if you were testing me or not.” Her eyes dart to the door and then back to me. “I didn’t know what to say.”
My forehead wrinkles with confusion. And then it hits me. She thought I was testing her? “Did you think I was going to hurt you, Ava?” My blood boils, and I resist the urge to show how angry I am. Not at her, but at the fact that she expected that shit from me.
Her lips part and her eyes fall as she admits, “I wasn’t sure.” Her tone is so sad. It fucking breaks my heart.
“I wouldn’t do that to you. I wouldn’t set you up.” I cup her chin in my hand and tilt her head. “I’m not like them.” I fucking hope I’m not. I don’t know what she’s been through. But I hate that she thinks I’m some sick prick like the fuckers who got their hands on her before me.
I have to change the subject. I’m getting too fucking worked up. “Can you eat?” I ask, as I drop my hand.
She nods her head and answers with a confident, “Yes.”
That makes me happy. She needs to eat. I give her a small smile and reach over for the bowl as she sits up.
“I’m glad you’re eating. Did they feed you?” I need to know. After seeing her reaction to killing that prick, I want to know what all that fucker did to her. I wish that bastard were still alive, so I could take out this anger on him and make him suffer for what he did.
“Yes. I was always fed something.” She says it simply. But it’s a veiled answer.
“Something? Be more specific?”
“Some fed me whatever it was they were eating.” Some. My throat closes and my eyes fall. How many men have hurt her? I swallow thickly and turn to her with the spoon held out. I want to feed her. She doesn’t hesitate to lean forward slightly and part her lips.
“Good girl.” She swallows and smiles with a small blush. The color looks beautiful on her cheeks. I like seeing it. But I know my next question is going to take her happiness away. I need to know, though. “Tell me what happened, Ava.” I dip the spoon into the hot broth and keep my eyes on it as I add, “I want to know.” I bring another spoonful to her lips.
There’s not a trace of a smile on her lips. Or any other emotion. A bit of disappointment, maybe.
“What would you like to know?” she asks warily.
“I want to know the names of the men who hurt you. All of them.” I raise the spoon again, but she shakes her head with a small frown.
“I’m sorry; I can’t.” Her answer pisses me off. I know she owes me nothing. I grit my teeth knowing I’m still waffling on what I’m going to do when I finally see Abram again. But a very large part of me doesn’t want to let him ever see her again. I’d rather lie and say she was dead. I need to think of something and let her know.
“I don’t know their names. Not all of them.” I give her my attention and try to control my anger.
“How many? Tell me what you can.” I clench my jaw realizing I’ve given her a command. Just like I did earlier with Felipe. What the hell is wrong with me? I set the bowl on the nightstand and get off the bed with my back toward her. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me anything.” She doesn’t owe me anything, and if she doesn’t want to talk about it, she doesn’t have to.
“I think I’d like to talk.” I turn to look at her and stare into her blue eyes. I nod and clench my fists. I look at the bowl and then the bed. I don’t think it’s smart of me to sit next to her. This shit is getting to me, and she doesn’t need my aggression. But when I look back into her eyes, she’s begging me for comfort. She leans forward slightly and adds, “If it’s alright, I want to talk.” She noticeably swallows and looks back at the bowl of soup on the nightstand.
“Do you want more?” I ask. I quickly reach for it and climb on the bed to give it back to her.
“There’s more downstairs if you like it.” It’s just a can of homestyle chicken noodle. But it does smell good.
She takes the bowl eagerly and smiles. “I do like it. My mother made us chicken noodle when we were sick, too.” She spoons out the broth and blows on it before taking it into her mouth.
She seems happy with the memory, but the mention of her mother makes me sick. It reminds me of my own mother. Both our mothers were slaughtered.
“My mother did, too. Never from a can though.” I grin at the memory. “My mother loved cooking,” I say matter-of-factly, and settle on the bed next to her. This is better, I think. Besides, I’d rather talk about this.
She chuckles into the spoon and takes it greedily into her mouth. “My mother hated cooking. We had a chef. But not when I was little. Back then it was different.”
I try to recall what I know of her father, but it’s not much. I suppose her famila made more money later on in her life and that’s why things changed for her. With the right setup and connections, there’s a shit-ton of money to be made.
“A chef sounds nice.” She shrugs her shoulders and takes another bite.
“I like cooking. But it’s nice every once in a while.”