“Fuck,” I whispered, especially when I trundled over to the vanity to wash my hands. A glance in the mirror had me hissing. “You look like you went ten rounds with Elvira.”
In fact, I looked worse than that.
I had black eyes. Bruises on top of bruises. And the worst part was that the marks Stan had left behind added to my look. His bite took up a good chunk of throat real estate, and I knew people would think my attacker had raped me.
Last night, after Victor had departed and I’d checked myself out in the shower, I’d been relieved to find no blood or spotting.
No tears.
I’d prodded away, seeking evidence of a forced insertion while I was unconscious, and had come up with nothing. But if you looked at the state of me, you’d think I had been.
My fingers gingerly stroked Stan’s bite.
My eyes tripped over it at first, then the bruises, but I always returned to those primitive marks.
Because they were mine.
I’dconsentedto him biting me.
Everything else with those fuckers had been against my will, but not this.
Never this.
Fingertips still dancing over the marks, I inhaled so deeply that it hurt my ribs. I leaned on the vanity, allowing it to take my weight while I studied his bite like a drowning person clung to a life buoy.
Last night was a tidal wave that wanted to overwhelm me, but I couldn’t let it. I wasn’t the type of person who allowed shit to take a precedence in my life.
In my family, everyone had a role.
Lucas and I kept things going.
That was our job.
If I allowed what happened to breach my defenses, our whole world would topple and?—
“Kitty?” Stan followed through with a soft knock on the door.
“Yeah. I’m decent.”
“Shame,” he joked, and my lips curved. Faintly—the moment had gone.
He seemed to sense it too. Neither of us spoke another word as he carried me into the bedroom then out into the hall.
A few doors down, I heard the sounds of running water as he walked us into a family bathroom.
He carefully lowered me into the tub, not bothering to take off the shirt I was borrowing or his loaned boxer briefs.
The moment the heat hit me, I shivered, but it felt good. Really good.
I peeped at him, watching him putter around and rifle through one of the cupboards. “What are you doing?”
“My sister andMatrihave too much crap. Mallow blossom? Verveine extract? Tomato leaves? I love Pachino tomatoes as much as the next Sicilian, but who the fuck wants to smell like a tomato plant?”
Grousing in Sicilian now, he brought them over to me.
I held my breath at the words he uttered. Half certain it’d trigger me. But then I sensed the difference between the Sicilian dialect and Italian and I relaxed.
Unaware of my almost-breakdown, he pumped some liquid soap onto each hand then swept them under my nose.
