I frown. “You said let’s go.”
“What are you doing with the sugar?”
It takes me a moment to catch on. It’s been such an automatic reaction for me, I haven’t been conscious of stealing the restaurant’s sugar. A stolen packet of sugar had saved my life—literally—more than once. My cheeks flame with embarrassment as I put the packets back in their container.
He catches my hand. “Keep them if you have an addiction to cane sugar.”
I pull away from his touch. “I don’t.”
This time, I’m the one who starts walking, and he has to follow. I have no idea where I’m going, just that I need to get away from his puzzled stare.
He catches up, falling into step beside me. “I’m not judging you. I just didn’t expect it from you.”
I bet he didn’t. People like me eat in Michelin Star restaurants without looking at the price on the menu. People like me are drilled in table etiquette. People like me don’t go hungry. They don’t look twice at useful sugar packets or wasted bread.
“Hey.” He catches my elbow and brings me to a halt. “Lina, it’s nothing.”
“It’s not fucking nothing.”
His eyes go wide, alert.
Damn it. The last thing I want is to draw his attention to my food stealing habits. I opt for changing the subject. “What are you shopping for?”
The awareness in his eyes doesn’t diminish. If anything, it sharpens, but he doesn’t push me on the subject. “For you.”
“Let me guess.” A bruise starts spreading in my chest. “Clothes.”
“There’s no way you’re living in Anne’s clothes.”
“I didn’t know you disapprove of her style.”
“It’s my job to put clothes on your back.”
“What else is your job?” I snap.
He cups my nape, pulling me closer. His voice is soft, dangerous again. “Are you sure you want me to answer that here?”
I can only shake my head.
As abruptly as he’s touched me, he lets me go. “We have an hour to fit you out. We better get moving.”
An hour later, Damian is armed with enough shopping bags to fill his trunk. Obstinately, I’ve chosen nothing, given him no input as he gathered armfuls of shoes, sandals, underwear, and clothes in my size. Dresses, T-shirts, blouses, they’re all sleeveless or short-sleeved. No jackets to cover them up. It’s as if he’s making a point. I hate the point he’s trying to make, and I hate that I don’t have a say over my own body. Yes, I’m lighter after last night. Yes, I’m relieved my ugly arms are out in the open. That doesn’t mean I want to rub my scars in people’s faces. I’m not that insensitive or naive. I know they’re hard to look at. They’re even harder to ignore.
“Stop brooding,” he says, closing the trunk. “The clothes are pretty. You’ll look pretty.”
“Does my opinion matter?”
“No,” he admits bluntly. As an afterthought, he adds, “At least, not where your body is concerned.”
“You’re crazy.”
“That’s your designation.”
Every muscle in my body draws tight. I’ve been fighting so hard to get my financial independence back, to take the control that has been stolen from me. Reminding me about this part of my history, the part Jack used to declare me incompetent, isn’t something I enjoy.
“Lina.” His voice takes an autocratic edge. “I’m only fooling with you. It was a joke.”
“Bad joke, Damian.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Why do I find that hard to believe? Without letting me say more, he pushes me into the passenger seat and secures my safety belt, something he seems to have taken responsibility for.
Since we started out early, it’s only mid-morning when he pulls up in front of a white complex. I glance at the medical building, suspicion and fear mixing into a poisonous cocktail in my chest. “What are we doing here?”
He doesn’t answer. He comes around the car, opens the door, and pulls me out.
Arranging the strap of my bag to cross over my chest, I hug it tightly. “Damian?”
This is where I kick in my heels. The last time Harold dropped me off at a clinic, the doctors pumped me full of drugs and kept me on the verge of sanity and starvation.
“Damian, please.”
Tears build in my eyes. I hate them but I can’t stop them. I can’t stop myself from taking two steps back, trying to escape the arms reaching for me.
His voice is soothing. “Lina, it’s okay.” He keeps his arms outstretched, but he doesn’t grab me. “Come here.”
I shake my head. My blood runs cold. Under the long sleeves, in the heat of the sun, I shiver. This is because of the scars. Last night, he pretended they were nothing. I should’ve known better. I should’ve known he’d use the knowledge of them against me.
“Lina.”
The way in which he says my name is a command, but it’s an order I can’t obey.
Damian slowly takes a step, as if he’s stalking an injured animal. “It’s for your own good.”
That’s what Harold said. That’s what the doctors who tortured me said. That’s what the nurses who looked away as it was happening said.
“None of this is for my good,” I whisper.
“Come to me, Lina. Now.”
Why does he sound scared? That’s not right. Damian is never scared. Me, I’m terrified.
“I’m counting to three,” he says in that tone he used in the study.
There’s nothing he can do to make me walk willingly into his arms. All the spankings and humiliations in the world are not enough to make me hand myself over to a fate that paralyses my body and dulls my mind but doesn’t let me ignore the leather straps that fasten my arms and legs to a cot while hunger ravishes me and my thirst-cracked lips mumble useless pleas while the man in the overcoat sticks another needle in my arm.
Chills run over me. “No,” I say, like I’ve said so many times in my life. Never willingly.
I roll on the balls of my feet, already feeling the flight in my veins. This isn’t a game. This isn’t a small rebellion of words he’ll let me get away with.
His hands, the strong ones that can chop off fingers or throw a car into gear with the confidence of a man who knows where’s he’s going, a man with secret destinations, those hands ball into fists. “Angelina.”
Everything inside me screams no as I take off, heading straight into the oncoming traffic.
Chapter 9
Damian
Fear is a foreign sentiment. That foreignness hits me head-on in the gut with no preamble or gradual introduction as my wife tears away from the pavement, throwing her body into the flow of traffic, double lanes, bus in the farthest one.
The first car swerves, barely missing Lina as she dodges a second and continues toward the lane where the bus is approaching too fast. Facts blur in my mind, the speed of the bus, the driver who’s checking his phone, the distance to the pavement. Terror cripples me. It’s like in my childhood nightmares. My feet won’t move fast enough.
Tires screech. Horns blare. Shouting. Swearing.
I fly through the air, tackling the fleeing woman with the full weight of my body. We go down to the tarmac. I try to soften her fall with my arms, but they’re not enough to absorb all the shock. Her bones rattle, her hip hitting the hard surface with a clack. Using the momentum of our fall, I roll us to the curb. The bus slows but doesn’t stop. It rolls by, the driver gaping at us through the window. Another flick of our bodies, a roll, and we’re on the pavement. Only then do I breathe again.
Lina lies underneath me on her back, her bag pressing into my stomach. Her eyes are wide, her pupils shot. It only takes a second before she starts fighting me like a rabid lioness. Pedestrians flow around us, parting like the sea for Moses. They look, but nobody reacts. In a city of violence, no one is brave enough to get involved. The chances of getting killed are too high.
Sitting up, I straddle her hips and p
in her wrists above her head. “Lina.” She kicks and screams, thrusting her hips. “Lina,” I say louder. “Look at me.”
At my stern tone, she stills. “Look into my eyes.” She obliges, appearing high on shock. “Do I lie?” When she doesn’t answer, I squeeze her wrists. “Do I bluff?”
“No,” she croaks.
“I won’t let anyone hurt you.” I wait for the words to sink in. “Isn’t that what I promised?”
She gives a meek shake of her head. “Not the clinic.”
I repeat the assurance slowly. “I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”
Defeat brims with the tears in her eyes.
“We’re going inside together.” I loosen my grip marginally. “Are you going to behave?”
She looks on the verge of sobbing but nods once.
“Good.” Slowly, I let go of her arms, but I don’t lift my weight off her hips.
The minute her hands are free, she fists them into the lapels of my jacket. “Please, Damian.” Her tears start flowing freely. “Don’t make me stay here.”
Her begging shakes me more than what I already am. It’s not like her to plead.
“Shh.” I wipe my thumbs over her cheeks, catching her tears. “I’m not going to leave you.”
I give it another couple of seconds for her to calm, but also for my heartbeat to stabilize. When I’m sure my heart is no longer in danger of stopping, I stand, bringing her with me. I lock my arms around her, holding her tightly, not only for comfort, but also in case she gets it into her head to run again. I let her soak up the hug before pulling away to look down at her tear-stricken face.
“We’re going to see a doctor,” I say gently.
At the word doctor, her face contorts with fear again.
“Listen to me, Lina.”
My authoritative tone has the desired effect. Her gaze locks onto mine. She waits and listens.
“We’re going to see a psychiatrist. He’s going to chat to you, make sure you’re fine, and that’s it. Nothing else. All right?”
“I don’t need a psychiatrist.”
“Your medical report says you’re supposed to be on medication.” Anti-depressants and appetite stimulants. More accurately, after seeing her scars, I want to be sure she’s stable enough not to harm herself.
“I don’t want pills.”
“Your health is my responsibility. We’re just going to talk to the doctor.” I don’t wait for her consent. “Relax.”
Not an easy task, given what has just happened, but she tries, drawing in a few deep breaths.
“That’s it. You’re doing good.”
Sure that her body is slacker and not wired for another sprint, I release my death grip to check for damage from the fall. I push up her sleeves. Her arms sport nasty tar burns. Gravel is lodged in her elbow where the fabric has torn. Going down on one knee, I roll up the jeans and find scrapes on her shins and knees. At least nothing is broken.
“We have to disinfect these.”
I fold my fingers around hers and lead her to the traffic light. When it changes, we cross at the crossing. I feel her reluctance in the weight of her body. I’m almost pulling her to the building. She digs in her heels at the door, but after I give her another stern look and repeat my promise not to leave her, she follows me inside with a bowed head and slumped shoulders. As we climb the stairs to Reyno’s office, she grows smaller. It’s only in front of his door that she picks her fighting spirit up from the floor.
“Damian, please. May I have a moment?”
“Yes.” I smooth down her hair. “Of course.”
She rummages through her bag and pulls out a tissue. Wiping mascara from under her eyes, she makes the most endearing creature I’ve seen.
“Ready?” I ask when she’s blown her nose and cleaned her hands with a disinfectant wipe she fished from her bag.
She doesn’t answer, probably knowing a reply is redundant.
Reyno has a shady reputation and the fees to go with it. There’s no waiting room or receptionist. It’s more discreet.
I knock and enter, dragging Lina behind me.
A small man gets up from behind his desk. He’s not much taller than Lina. With his over-sized, round-rimmed glasses and ash-colored hair, he looks like a character from a fantasy comic book. He greets us by surname but doesn’t offer a handshake or comment on the fact that we’re fifteen minutes late.
“I’m going to call you Lina,” he says, cutting straight through formalities. “I’m Reyno.” He indicates a chair facing a coffee table. “Please, have a seat. You can pick her up in an hour, Damian.”
She jerks her head toward me.
I give her hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’m staying.”
Reyno tilts his head. “I’m not sure that’ll be constructive.”
“She doesn’t want to stay alone.”
He looks at her. “Is this true?”
She gives a small nod.
“In that case, take the sofa.”
I push Lina down with a hand on her shoulder, not aggressively but firmly. What she needs right now is a strong hand, someone to take charge until she feels like herself again.
“Do you have a first-aid kit?” I ask the doctor.
He glances at her elbows and below the rolled-up jeans. “What happened?”
I look at Lina to see if she wants to answer.
“I tried to run away,” she says. “I didn’t want to see you.”
He rubs his chin. “Why?”
“I don’t like being—” She bites her lip.
“Being what?” he prompts.
“Being drugged,” she replies.
I get the feeling she was going to say something else.
“Mm. Let’s see about that first-aid kit.”
Reyno disappears into an en suite bathroom and returns with a kit he hands me. Sitting down next to Lina, I start cleaning her bleeding elbows while Reyno takes the seat opposite us.
He presses his hands together. “Why don’t we start with how you feel?”
Hurting, from the way she clenches her jaw as I scrape the gravel from her skin with a pair of tweezers. My girl keeps perfectly still without complaining.
“Lina?” Reyno says. “Did you hear me?”
She hisses as the disinfectant makes contact with her broken skin. “How I feel is a rather broad question.”
He chuckles at her sarcasm. “Are you sleeping?”
“When Damian doesn’t handcuff me to the bed.”
He doesn’t as much as blink. I’ve briefed him on our situation. If he disapproves, I don’t know, and I don’t give a fuck. I pay him to turn a blind eye to everything except giving my wife a prescription if her health warrants it.
“Do you have an appetite?”
“Yes.”
I can’t help but tease. “For sugar.”
She gives me a fuck-you look that’s as hot as hell.
“Do you empty your stomach after you’ve eaten?” he continues.
“Not unless Damian chops off someone’s fingers.”
I suppress a smirk, applying too much pressure on the gauze I press on her knee. She jerks at what must be a bite of pain.
“I see.” He cuts me a look before turning his attention back to my little fire-spitting wife. “How about your general mood? Do you feel sad? Depressed?”
“Not more than what my situation merits.”
Another swipe of cotton makes her bite her lip.
“Are you on any medication?”
“I occasionally take anti-nausea pills.”
“And sleeping pills,” I add.
“I told you Zane forced it on me.”
Zane knows how valuable she is to me. He won’t risk it.
“Who’s Zane?”
We speak simultaneously.
“A friend.”
“His housekeeper.”
“Does he stay with you?”
“Yes.” I carefully apply a plaster to her kneecap.
“They w
ere in jail together,” she says, putting emphasis on jail.
Giving her a smile, I cup her nape and drag my thumb over her soft skin. “Reyno knows who I am, Lina. He knows where I’ve been and why I married you. He’s not going to save you.”
Her expression falls. “That’s unethical.”
“Taking bribes for prescribing Schedule II medication is unethical, too.”
She looks at the shady shrink quickly, disapproval etched on her face.
Reyno remains emotionless. “A man’s got to live. No suicide attempts?”
“Apart from earlier, no,” I say.
“I was saying no, not trying to kill myself.”
“You have a strong way of saying no.”
Reyno gets to his feet. “That’s all for today.”
Lina gapes at him. “Really?”
He adjusts his glasses. “What did you expect?”
“Psychoanalysis. Hypnosis. Drugs.”
“Is that how you were treated before?”
She goes stiff next to me. “I’m only using bad generalizations.”
“No generalizations here,” Reyno says. “I want to see you next week, same time. Let’s see if you can manage a session alone. Damian has my number. Call me if you have mood swings or trouble sleeping before then.”
We rise together, arm in arm, like a happy couple. I nod my thanks. She says nothing as I lead her back to the car.
I start the engine and drive home, maneuvering through the traffic like a calm person, not showing that she shook me to my damn core. I’ve never seen a person react like that over a doctor’s visit. I don’t know what to make of it, but I’m hell-bent on finding out.
Lina
Emotionally exhausted, I fall down in a chair in the bedroom when we get home.
Damian dumps the parcels with the new clothes on the bed, watching me from under his eyebrows. “That’s what I call an eventful morning.”
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” My tone is scathing, but I can’t help myself.
His voice drops an octave. “Careful, Lina. I’m being patient with you.”
I kick off my shoes. “You owe me nothing.”
“Lina.”
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