He pointed to the alcove that led to the bathroom. A silent command.
She took a step, ignoring the way the soles of her feet burned from countless cuts. He didn’t approach her. Didn’t crowd her. He simply waited, giving her space to move at her own pace.
The blanket dragged behind her like a train as she hobbled forward, each step sending fresh jolts of pain up her calves. Despite the agony of each step, she kept as much distance as the room allowed between them.
He stepped back when she approached the doorway, letting her pass, but then came up behind her, trapping her in.
The bathroom stole her breath.
Black marble stretched across the floor, warm beneath her ravaged feet. A massive copper tub sat before a wall of windows that overlooked a private garden, its surface already shimmering with steaming water. Torches burned from candelabras on the walls, casting shadows over luxury. Glass bottles crowded a silver tray beside the tub, their contents promising secrets she couldn’t read.
“Go on.” He stood in the doorway behind her, his nearness a weight against her spine.
Her gaze met his in the mirror. Was he going to leave or just stand there?
He didn’t move.
When she tightened the blanket around her in defiance, he walked past her toward another alcove and reached inside. Water burst from a rainfall showerhead, filling the space with billowing steam.
Daisy watched, frozen, as he kept his back to her and worked the buttons of his waistcoat. His bone-white fingers trembled from the cold, fumbling with each closure. Frustration tightened his jaw, but he made no complaint, just kept working those infuriating buttons loose until he made it to the end.
He shrugged the waistcoat from his shoulders and let it fall to the floor with a wet slap.
The gun was gone. But where? He must have hidden it when he started the bath. She searched the room but didn’t see it.
His shirt came next. More buttons. More silent fury.
He peeled the soaked fabric away from his skin, the material clinging stubbornly before releasing its hold. It joined the waistcoat in a sodden heap at his feet.
Daisy’s breath caught, and his shoulders tensed. She hadn’t meant to make a sound, but she also hadn’t expected such a horrifying sight.
His back bore a landscape of violence. Raised ridges crisscrossed his shoulder blades in patterns that spoke of deliberate cruelty. Welts that had never fully healed. Puckered circles that might have been burns. Thin white lines layered over older scars, a chronicle of pain written across his flesh.
She pressed a hand to her mouth, but her shock had already escaped.
Their eyes met in the mirror as his muscles coiled beneath all that ruined skin.
Something flickered across his features. Not shame. Not anger. Recognition, perhaps. Or maybe defiance.
His cold, gunmetal stare dared her to ask, challenged her to comment. Then he turned to face her.
Daisy’s stomach dropped.
His chest told a worse story than his back. Cigarette burns dotted his sternum in clusters, some faded to white, others still faintly pink. A thick scar carved a diagonal path from his collarbone to his ribs, the edges ragged, as if the wound had been left to heal without stitches. More burns marked his abdomen. More lines. More evidence of years spent at the mercy of someone merciless.
Her chin trembled as she tried to calculate the length of time it would take to accumulate so many scars. They were past any point of healing, permanently etched into his skin for the rest of his days.
She swallowed tightly, forcing herself to look at what he so plainly challenged her to see. But every part of her wanted to turn away.
He had been a boy once.
Those marks had stretched and distorted in order to fit a man’s frame.
He moved past her without comment, approaching the copper tub and twisting the tap to stop the flow of water. One mark on his hip caught her eye as he stretched forward to drape a towel over the edge.
A silver circle with the letters RA, but reversed like a backwards brand. Her gaze went to his ring. The shape of the letters were exactly the same.
Had he done this to himself? The thought terrified her. If he could do such awful things to himself, what could he do to her?
