Page 77 of Veiled

My cheek stings, my head whipping to the side.

“She’s getting remarried, you know that?” His voice drops, low and dangerous. “She wants to start a new family. Have a daughter who won’t disgust and embarrass her.”

He grabs my arms, tightening his grip until my bones crack, and shoves me against the wall with all of his weight.

“Look at you. Look what you’ve made me do!” He slams my body into the wall again, his voice rising with fury. “Clean it up, and then you can go to bed hungry.”

He’s slamming the front door in the next second, and then I hear his truck engine start up and him peel out of the driveway.

Sinking to the floor, the hot noodles still stick to my skin, and the smell of burnt skin clogs my nose. I call out for Matt. He’d help, I know he will. But he can’t hear me from here, and there’s no way I can make it to my room, where our windows face each other, to try again. My body hurts like no pain I’ve felt before; every move I make sends a painful reminder of what just happened.

I need to cool it down. I need to numb the pain. I need to get to the freezer.

With trembling hands, I drag myself toward it with my arm that isn’t broken.

The cold air hits me in sharp bursts as I pull out every bag of frozen vegetables I can find. I pack them against my burns, my skin still on fire beneath the cold. It’s not enough, but it dulls the pain, making it bearable.

I need to clean up.

I’m positive he’s headed to the bar, which means I have a few hours until he comes back. But if everything isn’t clean and if I’m not locked in my room by the time he gets home, this will seem like a walk in the park.

I wipe my tears away, forcing myself to focus.

The counter. The floor. Every last noodle.

I crawl back to the mess and start to wipe the boiling water from the counter, doing my best to ignore the way my burns feel like they’re still cooking under the ice.

My posterboard is soaked, the ink from each word I’ve written now bleeds together into black splotches, but I don’t have the energy to care.

I’m left alone with my pain, trying to make everything look perfect for when he gets home.

It’s the only way to survive.

Glancing at the clock, it’s 4:07am; almost two hours before we planned to get up.

My throat is dry, remnants of the nightmare still making my skin prickle, so I force myself up to get some water and see if I can find Aiden.

The living room is dark, except for the time lit up on the microwave. I walk quietly, feeling on edge as my mind races with possibilities and dread. What if Greg caught on that we aren’t who we are pretending to be? What if Aiden decided to leave me and go finish the mission solo?

As I pull a glass from the cupboard, I catch the faint lantern light out the window.

There he is, at the edge of the water with the moonlight casting his shadow long across the sand. Aiden. He’s just standing there, staring out at the waves, his back to me. I can’t see his face, but I don’t need to. His posture says everything. Something’s wrong.

Water in hand, I walk barefoot down to him, silently hoping this beach isn’t home to too many crabs at night.

“Aiden?” I call, my voice still rough, “What are you doing out here?”

He turns his head slightly, barely far enough for me to see the sharp line of his jaw, but not enough to read his eyes.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he answers, his voice low, barely above a whisper. “I needed some air.”

I study him for a moment, the cold wind stinging my skin as I move closer. Something’s off. Something in his tone, in the way he stands, distant and still.

“You thinking about the mission?”

He doesn't answer right away, and the pause stretches too long. Then, finally, he nods. “Yeah. It's important. That’s all.”

“Okay, do you need anything? I have some water if you want it?”