I watch as he retrieves a towel from the closet along with a few other things. Once he sets them down he lifts my arms. I keep them there as he wraps the fluffy white towel around my body and tucks the remaining cloth at the center of my breasts to keep hold.
Turning on the faucet he waits for the water to get warm before placing the hand towel beneath it.
He shuts the water off, wrings the hand towel and comes to stand in front of me.
“This will sting,” he says. I wince as he places the cloth over my busted knuckles and sliced skin. “You’re doing well, Imogen,” he praises me. After cleaning the wounds he brings both of my hands at eye level. “Ever had stitches before?” I shake my head. “I’ll try to be as gentle as possible.”
After cleaning the area again he begins to stitch the top of my hand. I remain statuesque. Only wincing every so often. Each time that I do he becomes more gentle.
In another world I would appreciate his attentiveness.
In this one it burns. My enemy is bestowing upon me kindness and care that my own pa didn’t.
God, I will never be able to erase that. The way he continues to harper on about Niall but doesn’t see that I’m still here. His vengeance makes him blind. And not only has it affected me, it's affecting ma, too. My beautiful kind hearted selfless ma.
“There,” he says as he does the final stitch. I glance down to find perfect work.
And there’s something about the way his thumb ghosts over the stitches in a way of comfort that makes me more vulnerable than I was when he arrived.
“He didn’t care.” My voice cracks. I swallow but the lump doesn’t dissipate. If anything it feels larger than ever. “There were guns to my fucking head. Each one clicking and he. Didn’t. Fucking. Care.”
Tears blur my line of vision once more. And I hate what I’m becoming. A girl whose only response is to cry.
Face crestfallen I look to the only person I can for comfort. And I hate that it’s him. The man who put me in this predicament. The man who revealed my pa’s true nature. “Why didn’t he care?”
He doesn’t say anything. Truth be told I don’t expect him to.
Then, unexpectedly, he awkwardly places one hand on the back of my head to cradle my scalp. The other arm bands around my lower back.
Despite his stiffness I allow myself to melt into him. My cheek rests against the hard plane of his chest. I close my eyes as another damn tear falls.
But it’s the steadiness of his heart beats and the evenness of his breaths that calms me.
“I’ve come to discover seeing you in pain leaves me feeling heavily unsettled.” I don’t speak, too stunned that he even admitted such a thing. In what world does a captor care for hiscaptive? And in the vulnerable state I’m in I crave it. I wonder if he knows that. If this is some tactic only to weaken my defenses. “I don’t understand it myself. Before I had no care either way. But you,” he pauses, trying to find the right words. “I don’t like seeing you in pain.”
My mouth opens to rebuttal with a snarky reply. But it dies on my tongue when I realize he’s genuinely concerned. “I didn’t mean to hurt myself.”
“I know,” he says softly. Then, he releases me. His absence creates a coldness that reaches my bones. “Do you want to talk about it?”
My brows shoot to my hairline. “Talk about it?”
He nods his head. “In numerous studies it shows talking about what is bothering you leads to success in help of relieving the high intensity emotions. It allows for the person to reflect and be heard.”
I stare at him dumbfounded. “My captor wants to play my therapist?”
“Not exactly,” he murmurs. “I’m certain I’d make a terrible one.”
“Why are you being kind?”
“Do you think I’m incapable?”
“Forgive me, but I just can’t seem to understand you,” I say.
His lips draw slightly downward. “I don’t even understand myself.”
“You’ve said that before.” I point out.
“I have,” he agrees. “But I know right from wrong, Imogen. I’m aware of morals and values. I understand the complexity of mankind. I only have a hard time placing emotion with it. You could say I lack empathy.”
