My devastation is surpassed by intense rage and, unable to hold it in, I slap Rem across the face. He closes his eyes, grinds his jaw, but otherwise doesn’t react. Somehow, that makes me angrier.
I slap him again, harder. My hand comes away stinging. “You did this, didn’t you?! You weren’t satisfied with scaring me half to death, with getting me shot, with locking me away likesome captive, and following me around town like dog shit on my shoe.”
I step back, too many emotions hitting me at once. Rage, fear, devastation, utter hopelessness. No, notutterhopelessness. It doesn’t get to that level until I trip on something behind me. I look down and see my violin case. My heart claws up my throat as I bend down and carefully open the lid. What’s left of my composure breaks when I see what’s inside.
My violin, neck snapped clean off the body, strings dangling in a twisted mess between the two halves. The main portion is crushed, the bridge collapsed, the sound post stabbing out from the cavity. It’s broken beyond repair. Which is appropriate, because I feel exactly the same way.
I don’t realize I’m screaming until Rem hoists me off the ground and crushes me to his chest. The ringing in my ears is so loud it erases all other sound. But my screams reverberate against my ribs, radiating out of me like a nuclear explosion. Only to meet their match in Rem. His body absorbs the sound, his strength keeping me in one piece when it feels like I’m going to explode apart.
Minutes pass before I’m able to quiet down. The world slowly returns, and I find myself wrapped up in Rem. I was oblivious to him picking me up and setting me on the kitchen counter, but that’s where I am, my arms around his shoulders, head tucked against his neck, my legs wrapped around his hips, one of his hands cradling the back of my head as he rubs my spine with the other.
I’m hit with an unmistakable sense ofdéjà vu. The feeling of safety is the same, the familiar smell of cedar and sandalwood and man threading through my lungs.
He’s held me like this before. Last night, when I was sleeping. Weeping.
Twice now this tyrant has comforted me as I’ve completelyfallen apart and the fact that I feel safe in his arms makes me more wary of him than ever.
“You can let go,” I say, my voice muffled against his superfine wool coat.
“You’ll have to first.”
I tip my head up and we’re so close I can see gray streaks in the eyes I thought were near-black. The eyebrow over one of those eyes quirks up. He’s waiting for me to unlock my legs from around his waist so he can step back.
I do.
He doesn’t.
Instead, his hands drift to my sides, his touch gentle as he carefully lifts my vest and shirt to look at my bandage. The activity of the day has taken its toll; blood has soaked through the gauze as well as my co-worker’s shirt. He mutters something in Italian, and I have to stop myself from starting at his mouth.
“You’re not making this easy, you know.”
“Hmmm…?” Trauma really does affect people differently. My brain, apparently, handles it by turning to absolute mush, happily blocking out everything but the bob of his Adam’s apple, the threads of tattoos curling at the base of his throat. Mouth dry, I lick my lips, all in an effort not to lick him. “What am I not making easy?”
His fingers are hot points on my skin. “Keeping you in one piece, Haywood. We need to change the bandage.” I feel his thumb skim my stomach. Can’t repress the shiver that follows. His voice is lower, rougher when he asks, “Do you have a first aid kit anywhere in here?”
“I do. I did. Under the bathroom counter.”
“Stay put.”
I do, too tired to fight, too tired to move. Rem told Johnny to stay in the hall, so for at least one moment I don’t worry about what might be outside trying to come in. It’s hard to worry about anything else when my own personal predator isstalking back toward me, mini first aid kit dwarfed in one large hand.
He tugs at my shirt collar with the other. “We need to take the vest and shirt off. So we can clean and re-dress the wound.”
“Okay.”
Rem steps back, confused. “Okay? That’s it?”
“That’s it. Why?”
“Five minutes ago, you would’ve happily stabbed me to death if you’d been able to get ahold of anything even remotely sharp. You constantly do the opposite of what I tell you, you fight me tooth and nail at every opportunity. But now it’s just…okay?”
He’s right. My logic is non-existent. But so is my will to move. Exhausted, my body hurts too much for me to turn down an offer of help, even from him. “I have to twist to put the bandage on myself. Twisting hurts. So, yeah…okay.”
Rem’s expression gives nothing away as he undoes the three buttons closing my vest. Gently but efficiently, he slides it off my shoulders and down my arms.
My shirt buttons are next. Rem keeps his eyes on his work, long fingers slipping tiny buttons through their moorings. He works from the top down and it’s only when his hands hover above my breasts that I remember why I’d been particularly grateful for the ugly black uniform vest today. When I got to work and stripped out of the clothes Bianca gave me, I realized I’d somehow gotten blood on the bra. I wouldn’t— couldn’t—keep it on, so I ditched it along with everything else before putting on my co-worker’s spare shirt and vest.
Which wasn’t a problem until this moment. Rem realizes I’m braless at the exact same time I do.
