“So, what happened?”
“I knelt down in front of him, like I was going to put my mouth on him. He closed his eyes. And I pulled the knife from my back pocket. I stabbed him. Over and over, I stabbed his groin.” I screw my eyes shut to block out the memory, but it’s all there inside my head. The screams. The fury. “All I saw was blood.”
“It wasn’t Kelsey that Brady tried to rape that night. It was you.”
Eyes still clamped, I shake my head, but the truth in his words are too strong for the months of denial that has served as a shield. Because if--if--I’d so much as dipped a toe into those dangerous waters, there’s no telling what damage I would’ve done to myself in the aftermath. I wanted Brady more than anything my senior year, and when he finally showed interest, all my good sense went out the fucking window. I became a statistic. Another after-school special, warning girls of the dangers of drinking alcohol at a party. Only, instead of Brady looking like the villain, my retaliation made him the saint in all of this, and I became the psycho.
“It was Kelsey’s testimony that kept you from being locked up, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” I finally open my eyes, exhaling a shaky breath. “She witnessed everything, except the stabbing.”
“Tell me about Uncle George. Do you remember how his throat ended up sliced open?”
Lowering my gaze, I shake my head. “I blacked out.”
“He lived. Miraculously, given the depth of the cut. But his wife found the knife in your hands.”
Tears wobble before my eyes, distorting the dark gray sheets. Hold still. I can hear his raspy voice in my ear, smell the beer on his breath, as he yanked down my underwear. The grunting and groaning that churned a sickness in my stomach, while he tried to breach my barrier, too small for his size. The burn. The pain. The sight of his pocket knife sitting on the nightstand next to the wooden horse he carved for me. A knife he always carried around and used to clean his nails. “He tried to hurt me.”
“All of them tried to hurt you. And if you’d had a knife in your hands the other day, when Boyd pulled up beside you?”
“I would’ve cut him with it.”
Lucian rounds the bed, and sits beside me. “Your whole life, you’ve been ridiculed and treated like a monster.” He strokes his hand down my cheek, and at the gentle nudge to my chin, I lift my gaze to his. “And all you’ve done is protect yourself.”
“I didn’t want to hurt anyone.”
“But we do what we have to.”
“I tried to forget it. I desperately tried to forget all of it, but … it’s always there, Lucian. It’s always there. Playing over and over inside my head.”
“And it always will be. Trust me, I know.”
“Did you kill Amelia?”
Turning away from me, he sighs, and his eyes seem contemplative for a moment. “I did. Over the course of our marriage, I killed her a little bit every day that I didn’t show love for her. I couldn’t lie to her, though. Not even in the end.”
“Are you capable of feeling love, at all?” It’s a question I’m not supposed to ask, because we established what this is before it began. To hear him say no would only stab my heart at this point, so perhaps it’s masochistic of me to inquire, at all.
“When I figured out that Boyd had taken you, and saw you tied to that bed. Helpless. Scared. Only one thought stirred in my head. That anyone who touched you would die a long, slow, and painful death at my hands. I didn’t care who, or what, it was.” Palm caressing my throat, he strokes his thumb over my jawline and chin in a way that demonstrates his possession. “I’d have given up my soul to the devil himself for you. If that isn’t fucking love, then I don’t know what is.”
“My aunt says love is when you try to imagine a world without someone in it, and can’t.”
“I’ve only felt that one other time. When my son died in my arms. I wanted to follow right after him, wherever it was that he went, because I couldn’t face him no longer being in this world. I’ve only felt that one other time, since then.”
“When?” I dare to ask him.
“The day you told me you wanted out. Out of this place. Out of my life.”
“I was scared of you, then. I’m not anymore.”
Hand still clasped to my neck, he lowers himself and captures my lips in a kiss. God, I missed the feel of this, the scent of him, the taste of him on my tongue and in my head, wrapped around every nerve ending in my body. “I want you to stay with me,” he says against my mouth. “You’ll never want for anything, Isa. And I promise you, no one will ever hurt you again.”
“And what happens when you get bored of me? When the thrill of the forbidden is gone?”
“Impossible. You can’t get bored of the very thing you need to stay alive.” Lips devour mine in another kiss, and he squeezes his palm, just enough to steal my breath.
Hand against his chest, I break the kiss. “I want you to let Giulia go. Honor the contract by allowing her daughter to stay in school, but let her go.”
“Done.” His voice is as resolute as the expression on his face.
“And I want you to leave Schadenfreude.”
“If I could, I’d do it today. But leaving puts both of us at risk. It so happens I’m privy to things that ensure I’ll never be able to just walk away.”
I let my hand fall from his chest and turn away from him. “So, you’re still willing to make deals to fuck other women?”
“No. I’m no longer participating in the rituals. Only the occasional meetings.”
“And what happens when they decide that isn’t good enough?”
“Then, we follow our instincts, you and I.” He strokes a hand down my hair and tips my chin up. “No one will hurt you again. Not even me. I won’t allow it. Are you hungry?” he asks, placing a gentle kiss to my forehead.
“Starving.”
“I’ll get you something to eat. Stay put.”
“Here? In your bedroom?”
“Would you prefer to hobble your way back down to your room?”
“Not particularly. I just … never mind.”
“Good. Then, stay put.”
Upon his exit, the door clicks, and I turn over on the bed, breathing in the scent of him clinging to the pillows. The warmth and safety of my surroundings, or perhaps the lingering effects of the drugs, lulls me in and out of sleep.
“Isa, wake up.”
At the sound of a woman’s voice, I turn over to find a shadow on the wall moving like a lithe figure. It rushes toward me, and as I kick back against the headboard, Laura’s face comes into view in the light from the window. Her long, silvery hair drapes delicately over her shoulders, and the red rims of her eyes only accentuate the deep black pools of dilated pupils that swallow the blue.
No cane.
No wheelchair.
No stagger in her movements.
“What is this?” I glance around the room, but find Lucian hasn’t yet returned. “Am I dreaming?”
Wrinkled lips curve into a smile. “I didn’t find you in your bed, dear. Figured you’d be here.”
“My bed? Did you …. Do you need something?”