“She needs clothes,” she called out behind me, far too chipper this time. “You know, if she’s going to stay here. Some shopping would do her some good. Besides, Maman wants to meet her.”
I could practically feel the smoke coming out of my nostrils. They both needed to understand Tessa wasn’t a PR stunt. Just a means to an end. I shoved the door open.
“Or maybe some self-defense lessons once she’s all healed up. It’ll make her feel safer.”
I stilled at the door, wishing I’d thought of that and then berating myself for thinking she’d be alive long enough to even make use of them. Tessa was messing with my head.
“Oh, and Margaux called to remind us Tessa has that CT scan scheduled tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“I’ll be taking her,” she called after me with a little too much tart.
“No. You won’t.”
My tone was final. While on my estate, my control over Tessa was absolute. I was not about to cede that and allow her to escape. Because she was a liability. Because I had a duty to fulfill. With each passing day, those truths became less important.
Chapter 15
HewasgonewhenMarie dropped off my breakfast tray in the morning.
I didn’t need to see to know. The room felt different without him, as if his presence was too large for his body. I’d half convinced myself the last couple of nights were fever dreams until he barged into the room while that technician leaned over me.
I reached out, disregarding the tug to my side, needing physical proof. The hard contours of the armrest of his chair, which shouldn’t be there, met my fingertips. Real. His heady masculine scent lingered, just enough to tell me that last night really happened. All real. I tipped my head back into the pillow and smiled. It was unforgettable. The way his fingers had stroked my jaw. The way his lips pressed into my skin. The way his breath warmed that same spot.
A heaviness throbbed between my thighs. I rubbed them together, needing more friction. My fingers lifted my gown under the covers and slipped beneath my underwear. They parted my slit. I was soaked. I circled my clit and tossed myhead back on a moan. I imagined his arms around me, those brawny biceps I once clung to caging me in, those thick hands of his holding me close. I chased that euphoric feeling. It built and built, higher and higher.
Until it didn’t. Until voices crept in amidst flashes of colors behind my eyes—reds, blacks, and oranges. The words were muddied. It wasn’t what they said, it was how they said it. Slimy, predatory, snide, derisive as they demanded I continue when I didn’t want to, when I couldn’t. I snatched my hand away. The voices stopped.
I lay there, unable to move for long minutes, confused, terrified, yet relieved all at the same time. I’d been part of a trafficking ring, Adrien had said. Some part of me had always believed him. A small part. The rest, though, the larger part, thought he was only trying to justify some stupid conviction he had, and I felt better knowing that wasn’t the case.
How stupid of me. Even more ridiculous, I wished he were here, in the room, with his gruff, hard-ass attitude, threatening me with weapons.
It didn’t matter that I’d only gotten back tidbits of who I was. It didn’t matter that I was still injured and healing. I meant something to him, and he meant something to me too. My would-be assassin/mafia boss cared for me. I just knew it. I felt it in my chest, this odd tingling slowly spreading outward whenever I thought of him.
It wasn’t rational, I was aware of that, but it felt like I knew him. Every day, more memories came back to me. A sound, a smell, even a word sometimes triggered a new one, and each time, I picked up new pieces of myself. It was like my memories were trapped in hundreds of little cages, vibrating to get out. Each one needed a key. The difficult part was finding them, but he was unlocking some too. Once freed, they couldn’t be contained again.
I loved music. I used to play the piano, cello, and violin. My mother and I were really close. My father beat her, and sometimes me too. I had a loving brother, older by close to a decade. Mostly I dreamed of a boy or that boy as a man and the time we spent together. He was older than me by a few years at least, but we were friends, close friends, in every single memory.
Not for the first time, I wondered if he and my captor were the same person. They both had the same name and the same scars on the back of their hands. They both spoke French and English. They both enjoyed origami. Their voices were similar. Their cologne. The feel of their presence too, but maybe that was all in my head.
Maybe I just wanted them to be the same person. Maybe I wanted to put a face I could see to the man who haunted my every waking moment. Maybe I needed some connection between my present and my past. Was my dream boy/man’s name really Adrien, or was my subconscious swapping it in?
It was easier to accept that I couldn’t see before I started remembering. Before vibrant colors, shapes, and people filled my memories. I didn’t miss my sight exactly, but it did feel like a part of me was being omitted. Hopefully, I’d get answers after my CT scan tomorrow, now that almost four weeks had gone by since the surgeries.
With a television playing in the background, the day passed by faster. I skipped through channels, having easily memorized the buttons on the remote. When I was bored with that, I let music play in the background. Dr. Conde came by and checked my scars for what she called the final time, giving me the all-clear to resume regular activities.
It was astounding how much a little light walking around the room used to drain me at first. Now I no longer hobbled or hunched over as I walked around the room. I made it threehundred paces before I collapsed in the lounge chair on the balcony, soaking up the midday sun.
Halfway through the morning, Marie knocked on my door, calling out that I had deliveries. Bundles of crinkling paper bags were plopped onto my bed.
“It was about time,” Marie said a little forcefully, in her strong French accent. “Do not worry. I will put these away for you. And then we will get you out of that horrid gown.”
There was something motherly about her that made it so easy to like her. She spoke to me as if we’d known each other for years, chatting the time away with every stop she made to see me. She always placed liquids such as coffee to the right of every food tray so that I easily found them and never made me feel like I was missing out because of my lack of sight. With her, I wasn’t just waiting in limbo for Adrien’s visits.
“What is it?”
“Clothing,ma chère.” My dear. “The boss seems to have purchased out the whole shop just for you. Everything you could wish for. Here, feel this.” Soft, smooth, slightly hairy fabric. “Cashmere,” she supplied. “And this.” This fabric was almost cool to the touch and thin with a drapey feel. “Silk. You’ll look absolutely lovely in these.”
