Page 38 of The Silent Princess

“No, I’m sorry, Tristan, but I can’t accept; that’s not how I was raised.”

“Ella…”

“Please, you have to understand. Don’t make it harder than it is to refuse.” A tear falls slowly on her bruised cheek. “I need this job; I can’t rely on anyone else, please.”

“Okay, okay,” I say, softer. I’ll need to find another way to help her if she’s insisting on refusing my help.

“I appreciate you wanting to help, really. But…it’s complicated. You never know what dawn will bring. I have to take care of myself. No one will come to save me.” So she can’t trust anyone but herself…that I understand. If she trusted me fully, then she’d let me help her. Copy that.

My fingertips roam over her jaw, the promise of her sweet as honey.

“Let me at least drive you back home then.” To my surprise, she does not argue or put up a fight, which I take as a win.

“Okay,” she says silently as I imagine what her voice could sound like. Breathy, dry, and shy, a tone so low only the one paying attention could hear. That is how discreet she is, and I would bet she has spent the majority of her life wishing she could disappear beneath people’s attention. If she were mine, I would want the whole world to see her. To pay attention, very carefully. In a sense, if people did not see her purposefully, that would be the last time they ever failed to. Like I said, I’m not a violent man. But it doesn’t mean that I couldn’t be one. Taking her hand, I lead her out to the main lounge, where her bag rests on one of the sofas. I really need to buy her a new one. Would she let me, though? I have never had to deal with a woman refusing my help. As refreshing as it is, little does she know that she will have to get used to it. Her hand escapes mine as she puts her hair behind her ears, fidgeting. What is she trying to tell me?

“I have to change,” she signs. I take a second to process—the blouse, of course. Turning my back on her, I wait, hearing every movement of fabric as she breathes faster. When did I ever have to do such a thing? The sensation is foreign, as no woman has ever asked that from me. Except Ella is different. I have no doubt her spine is made of steel, but I would bet my life on the fact that she is also as breakable as crystal glass. And so I will handle her with care. With chivalry. With the unusual gentleness I have never needed to deploy with any woman. A snap echoes behind me, and a slight smirk draws on my mouth. She snapped her fingers for me to hear. That must be the most adorable thing she could do.

Just to make sure, I state, “I am going to turn.” And I do so, facing this breathtaking young woman in a light blue long-sleeved shirt, the thing too tight for her own good, her wretched sneakers back on, her long black hair pulled to one side of her shoulder, her complexion flushed. I offer my palm, and she hesitates for a second before sliding her hand into mine, clutching her bag on the other side. I lead us to the elevator, running my thumb over the back of her hand as we wait in silence. No small-talk nonsense. No awkward need to fill the void with words. Finally, someone who speaks the same language as me. I try to resist it, but as the metal doors slide to the sides, I lace our fingers, sensing her fingers letting me in, the touch intimate, igniting a fire in the metal cage that grows by the minute. A mental tick of the clock begins in my mind, as if the rest of my life has just started over.

Ella Brooks.

Creature of silence.

Walking mystery.

Do you realise what you are doing to me?

Ella

He would not let go of my hand. Holding it tight, our fingers laced like magnets, mocking us for trying to resist the invisible pull. What am I doing? Why am I letting him drive me home? I could not meet Ronny’s gaze as I walked out of the lobby. Would he think so little of me, then? Like Mara does? I try to put some logic into this, but I cannot. I cannot because this man is trapping me inside a cocoon of safety, too good to believe and still too good to resist. I have been living dark years, waking up to go on living the same life day after day, until I could no longer distinguish summer from winter.

Ella, clean this.

Ella, sew that.

My knees still hurt from cleaning their bathroom floors. I have become so starved for affection that I did not realize it until I walked past a policeman around my fifteenth birthday and started crying, standing in the street with an old pink-striped sweater from Valeria’s closet and sneakers with a hole in the sole. He was quite young, in his thirties, I think, but he had the sort of authority some people can only be born with. And as if I could smell the sense of protection emanating from him as I crossed the street, I stood before him and let tears roll down my face. I wanted him to hug me. And it had nothing to do with attraction, but because a hug and a kiss on the forehead from a man like him, even a stranger who knew nothing of my world, would have helped me carry on. A hug. A you’ve got this. You’re not alone. Someone, even for a second, has your back.

He did not hug me, and I just stood there awkwardly, compelled by my shame and lack of restraint, before rushing into hiding in the corner of a street, sitting down by a wall between a trash can and a forgotten shopping bag. I remember clear as day how I longed for a touch, how it could have been synonymous with a rope falling into a well, trapped in the darkness. Since then, I have developed a trick, in a desperate attempt to soothe myself. I kneel down, circling my chest with my own two arms, rubbing my palms over my sides, humming sounds of reassurance, tricking myself into thinking I am not completely and utterly alone.

“Ella?” Tristan’s voice pulls me out of memory lane as I accept his hand and step toward his car. “It’s a car I keep here for late nights,” he explains. “Most of the time I have a chauffeur so I can work on the way to work, but sometimes I prefer to drive myself.” I sit as he leans in, catching the seat belt and draping it over me. What is he…

“Safety first,” he mutters, his forest-green eyes landing on my lips before he clicks the belt into place, closes the door, and circles the car to sit behind the wheel. How come he still has not asked me where I live? Why does it reassure me that he already knows things about me?

Silence surrounds us as the car starts, the engine humming low beneath us, the dashboard casting a faint glow over his profile. Tristan drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting between us, palm up, like an offering. His index finger roams over his lower lip, as if he is playing a chess move he is not entirely sure will end well. Seeking his touch, I slide my hand from my thigh and cover his. A light sigh leaves him as he laces our fingers, his thumb brushing over my knuckles while his gaze remains fixed on the road. Who knew holding hands could set me on fire?

I often hear Valeria and Emily talking in the living room about their boyfriends and all the things they do, which seem to require quite a lot of stretching and sweat, along with expensive lingerie sets and daring pictures sent to one another.

We drive for fifteen minutes, light opera music playing in the background, the night swallowing us into another reality. When we arrive in my neighborhood, I straighten in my seat. There is a car parked in front of the gates. One I have never seen before. Yet I have the itching sensation that it could belong to the men who came to visit Mara, and a strange sense of protection takes hold of me because I do not want to pull Tristan into whatever shady waters Mara is stepping into. Squeezing his hand to catch his attention, I let go and sign, his eyes dropping to my hands before returning to the road.

“Could you please drop me here?” I pause, checking once again, then notice the car’s lights flicking on as it begins to pull away.

“I didn’t...” The car slows, his eyes shifting to me. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I was focused on the road. Can you repeat, please?”

Frowning for extra emphasis, I repeat, “Could you please drop me…here?” His eyes follow my brows, reading more than my hands. I often sharpen my facial expressions when I sign, especially when I need to make a point. I try not to do it too much with strangers who have no idea what I am saying, but Tristan seems far more familiar with the subtleties of sign language than the average person.

“Wait.” His voice hardens. He slows the car at the beginning of the street, his arm rising in front of my chest, shielding me from the road while he looks at the black SUV departing. The car stops. Pulling out his phone, he types fast, his attention moving between the road, the SUV, and the screen. His phone vibrates a few seconds later, and he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Brenton, search this license plate immediately.” He says on the phone, then enumerates plate numbers, his hand lowering again afterward, resting near my thigh. What is he doing, who is this Brenton, and how is he relevant? His voice catches my attention as I linger too long on the thickness of his hand and the veins dancing beneath his skin.