by Kelsie Rae
Once I’m finished, I wash my hands, then pull out my cell from the front pocket of my slacks and set the timer.
Then we wait. In silence. Because I don’t feel like asking any more questions that are going to reveal what really happened to an innocent girl at the hands of a sick motherfucker who died earlier this morning.
Call me a coward, but I can’t take it anymore. Not right now.
And it’s not like she’s one for small talk, anyway.
Sliding to the ground, I press my back against the white wall and look up at a comatose Q who hasn’t moved a muscle since I brought her in here. She reminds me of a puppet, waiting for someone to pull the strings and tell her what to do as if she can’t make her own decisions or think for herself.
She really is broken. And I don’t know if I’m the right man for the job to put her back together again.
Hell, I don’t even know if it’s possible.
Even though it kills me inside, I motion to the tile floor and mutter, “You can sit down if you want.”
Like a good little puppet, she crosses her legs and sits down but leaves a solid two-foot radius of empty space around her while staring blankly at the wall across from us.
She’ll never trust me.
With my elbows on my bent knees, I tear my gaze away from her and watch the minutes tick by.
The timer dings a little while later. Pushing myself up from the tile ground, I offer my hand to help her do the same. Q stares at it for a few seconds like it’s a cobra about to strike. She releases a shaky breath. Then she takes it. Her hand is tiny as mine swallows hers whole, reminding me how fragile she really is. Once she’s on her feet, I release my hold and squeeze the back of my neck.
“We’re, uh, we’re supposed to wash your hair now. Do you want to just take a shower, or do you need my help?”
Her lower lip quivers as a soft breath escapes her. I’m not sure what I’ve said, but I backpedal, “I can help if you need it. I just figured you might want some privacy. I know it’s been a long day.”
Her silence suffocates me before she peeks up at me and admits, “I’m not sure I know what privacy is anymore.”
“Then I think you need it even more. Do you prefer showers or baths?”
She drops her gaze back to the ground, but she doesn’t answer me.
The clear glass shower door is heavy as I pull it open and turn on the hot water. When my attention catches on a razor, I freeze, then take it out of the small space while hating the fact that suicide even crossed my mind.
“I’ll just be outside,” I announce.
Her dainty fingers reach for my forearm and showcase the contrast between her pale skin and my olive tone as she prevents me from leaving. Curious, I drag my stare from her innocent touch and up to her bruised face. Her chin drops down to her chest before she releases her hold, pushes her long, painted hair over one shoulder, then gives me her back.
“W-will you unzip me?”
Without a word, I take the tiny piece of metal that holds her stained dress together between my fingertips. The zipper slowly reveals inch after inch of soft, milky white skin marred with fresh cuts and purple bruises. Turning my head away from the evidence of her abuse, I finish tugging the zipper down before it stops at the base of her spine.
The fabric drops to the floor and pools around our feet. Then a very naked Q glances over her shoulder at me with big, doe eyes. Tempting me. Testing me. Daring me to be the man she thinks I am.
But I’m not him.
And I hate that she can’t see that.
Clearing my throat, I turn away and grab the scissors off the counter. “I’ll be in your room. There should be shampoo and shit in the shower. I’ll go find something for you to change into when you’re finished.” Forcing myself to look back at her, I keep my expression indifferent and ask, “Do you want the door open or closed?”
“Open,” she whispers, holding my stare. The air is electric, threatening to consume me if her eyes weren’t filled with so much hatred.
But they are. And it’s that bitterness that convinces me to leave.
With a nod, I hold the scissors and razor in one hand, then push the door as far open as it will go before getting the hell out of there.
4
Q
The hot water burns my back as I rinse the dye from my long hair. It’s almost a blue-gray color with a hint of purple. Mesmerized, I watch it swirl down the drain. A ghost of a smile spreads across my face before disappearing just as quickly.
I actually kind of like it.
As the water runs clear, I glance toward the door that leads to the bedroom, expecting to find Diece watching me. But his shadowed figure is absent. Sliding onto my butt, I let the water wash over me in scalding rivulets while the last thirty minutes play out on repeat.
He didn’t touch me.
Even as I stood less than six inches away from him––naked––he didn’t take advantage. He didn’t even look. What does that mean?
It was almost easier in Sei’s captivity because I knew exactly what to expect from everyone around me. But here? I’m left confused and on edge. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to believe.
Why didn’t he touch me?
The water starts to cool, making goosebumps spread along my bare skin, so I push myself up and grab the dark, fluffy towel hanging on the rod outside of the glass shower. I flinch as it brushes against my sensitive flesh, then wrap it around my chest, tucking one corner between my breasts before crossing my arms and venturing into the bedroom.
A folded, extra-large T-shirt and sleep shorts sit on the edge of the bed, but my captor is nowhere to be seen. Convinced he’s hiding somewhere so he can sneak a peek of my bare body, I squat down to pick up the clothes then hide away in the bathroom to get dressed. I still can’t manage to close the damn door, though. Anytime I try, the walls come barreling in until I can’t breathe. Claustrophobia is a bitch.
The T-shirt is a faded black, but it’s soft. Comfortable. The worn material acts like a soothing blanket as it slides against my freshly cleaned skin, and it doesn’t show my nipples through the dark color. Satisfied, I slip on the shorts before realizing they’re men’s boxers. My expression sours when a soft knock at the door grabs my attention.
“Hey,” D interrupts, but he keeps his gaze glued to the floor as he hovers near the entrance from the hallway. “Are you decent?”
I want to laugh but restrain myself as I look over at him. Dark, wavy hair. Strong jaw. And muscle after freaking muscle. The guy’s huge. And terrifying. Even though he’s shown me nothing but kindness, I just…can’t trust him. I know what those muscles can do. What those fists can do.
My lips pull into a thin line, refusing to answer him.
It’s another test, though I doubt he knows it.
Brows pinched, I wait for him to sneak a peek, but his eyes stay glued to the floor as I stay hidden in the back corner of the bathroom.
“Q?” he calls gruffly after another few seconds. “Can I come in? Or do you need another minute?”
Swallowing thickly, I give in and choke out, “Yeah. I’m decent.”
He lifts his gaze, steps into the bedroom, then searches the empty bathroom for a split second before his eyes land on me. My breath hitches as he scans me from head to toe. But it isn’t sexual. It’s as if he’s checking off boxes in his head to make sure I’m taken care of. But why? I don’t know how I feel about it––the fact that he acts like he cares.
“Sorry about the clothes,” he grunts as he finishes his inspection. “Matteo forgot to pick something up for you other than the hair dye, so you’re stuck with my stuff for now. I’m not comfortable with us going out, so I’m going to have someone drop some shit off. You ready to finish your makeover?”
My mouth twitches with another smile as the word makeover slips out of his mouth.
“Something funny?” he challenges, showcasing his amusement.
I sh
ake my head.
Wagging the pair of scissors from earlier back and forth, he drops the subject and asks, “Do you want to do the honors, or do you want me to?”
Oh. Right.
My shoulders hunch, but I don’t answer him. It’s not like I actually have a choice in the matter, and I’ve been avoiding the mirror like the plague anyway.
“Q.” He exhales. I’ve pissed him off. Bracing myself for a fist, he surprises me by setting the scissors on the counter and lacing his fingers behind his head until his biceps are bulging. “I can’t imagine the shit you’ve been through, but you’re allowed to communicate with me. If you don’t want to cut it, we don’t have to. The color has already changed your appearance more than I expected. We’ll do whatever––”
“Cut it.”
He arches his brow. “You want me to do it?”
I nod while continuing to ignore my reflection in the mirror. I can’t look.
“You sure?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Do you care how short we do it?”
It’s almost down to my butt right now and has been for as long as I can remember. The idea of cutting it off is surreal.
“Q?”
“Whatever you want,” I tell him.
“This isn’t about me or what I want, Q. This is about you.”
A scoff slips out of me before I can stop it as I point out, “Nothing is about me.”
“This is,” he argues. “It’s your hair. You get to decide how short we go.”
“Fine.” Licking my lips, I cross my arms and answer, “Short.”
He studies me for a few seconds before deciding that’s the only answer he’s going to get. Stepping forward, my captor pushes all of my hair behind my shoulders until it hangs limply down my back.
Then he starts cutting. And with every snip of the scissors, a weight feels like it’s being lifted from my shoulders. The cool air kisses the back of my neck by the time he’s finished while the discarded hair tickles my bare feet as it lies on the marble tile around me.
A few minutes later, his gruff voice breaks the silence. “Finished.” With a satisfied nod, he examines his handy work then announces, “Damn, I’m good. Take a look.”
I close my eyes and suck in a deep breath, making sure to fill my lungs to full capacity before letting it all out in a slow exhale as I search for the courage to face the new me. The one who’s broken. The one who’s lost. The one who’s afraid of her own shadow and is terrified of her past. Her present. And her future.
I can’t do this.
“Q?” Diece prods with a gentle voice.
Unable to ignore it any longer, I open my eyes, turn to the mirror, and gasp. I don’t know who the girl in the mirror is, but her face is mottled with black and blue, and her hair is…well, it’s kind of badass and reaches just below her chin. Carefully, I run my fingers along my swollen cheekbone as I inspect the damage from Sei’s fists while almost forgetting that I have an audience.
“Does it hurt?” Diece breathes beside me.
A breath of laughter slips out of me, but there isn’t any humor in it. “It always hurts. I remember thinking I’d get numb to it all, but….” My voice trails off as I blink back tears.
“Tell me.”
“I felt everything every single time. I still feel everything,” I correct myself, though my tone is indifferent.
His hands tighten into fists at his sides as he watches me carefully. I can tell he wants to comfort me but doesn’t know how. He’s not the only one who’s helpless, though.
I wish I knew how to make the pain go away too.
“He’s gone now,” Diece reminds me, rocking back on his heels. “Burlone can’t hurt you anymore.”
What?
“Burlone didn’t hurt me,” I tell him.
Confused, he asks, “Then who hurt you, Q?”
My mouth floods with bile, but I swallow it back.
“Tell me,” he pleads.
“Sei did.”
5
Diece
A high-pitched scream breaks the silence in the dark house, rousing me from a deep sleep. It scatters the haze of exhaustion that usually clings to me at three in the morning, pushing me to jump into action. I reach for my gun that rests on the nightstand, then rush across the hall to obliterate the source of Q’s pain.
Her room is painted in black as she tosses and turns in her bed. But she’s alone.
I drop my gun-wielding arm to my side and turn back to my room when another bloodcurdling scream ricochets off the walls. Facing her again, I rub my eyes and push aside my panic.
What the hell am I supposed to do?
Her back arches off the mattress as her legs tangle in the sheets that act like angry hands, clawing at her limbs to keep her in place. But I’m helpless to save her from the demons haunting her dreams. They aren’t real. And she probably wouldn’t want my help anyway. Squeezing the back of my neck, I watch her from the shadows as she pulls her knees to her chest and curls into a tiny ball on her side before she whimpers, “Please, stop. No, no, please—”
My legs eat up the distance between myself and the bed before I sit on the edge and shake her gently. “Q. Q, wake up. Wake up. It’s alright.”
She squirms against me, wiggling out of my grasp when another sob escapes her. “No! Please—”
“Q.” I shake her harder, desperate to make the monsters disappear. “Q, wake up.”
“Stop! Stop!” she shrieks.
“Q!” Yanking her up, I bring her to my bare chest and wrap my arms around her, then rock her back and forth. “Q, wake up.”
Her trimmed nails dig into my bare back as she finally wakes up and cries, “He’s here! He’s here!”
“Shh,” I murmur, rubbing my hand along the cotton T-shirt plastered to her sweaty frame. “He’s not here, Q. He’s gone. I promise.”
“He was here—”
“It was a dream. Just a dream.”
Registering my words, a silence envelops the room as she attempts to steady her staggered breathing. But she doesn’t pull away. She burrows closer to my chest and releases a shaky exhale before replacing it with an even shakier inhale.
“Shhh,” I whisper. “It’s okay.”
“W-where is he?” Her voice is hoarse and is laced with a desperation that guts me.
“He was arrested. He’s in the FBI’s custody.”
Her tears drench my chest as she pulls away and looks up at me.
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah. Dex took care of it.”
“How? I need details, Diece,” she pleads.
Recalling the conversation before I left, I tell her, “Dex said he tied Sei up and threw him in one of Burlone’s closets where the tournament was held. They took him in with the rest of the bastards who buy and sell women. He’s gone, Q. Promise.”
“He’s in prison?” she asks.
“Yeah. That’s what I’ve been told.”
“And you’re positive? He doesn’t know where I am? Wouldn’t be able to find me? No matter what?”
“Yeah. Positive.”
Her voice reaches a higher pitch as she demands, “And what about anyone else? Could anyone else find me if they were looking?”
“What? Who?”
“Just answer the question,” she spits.
“No. The only people who know your whereabouts are Kingston, Matteo, you, and me,” I tell her. “You’re safe here, Q. I promise. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
A spark ignites inside of her at my words, causing her to blaze with a fury that’s so deep and angry, I’m surprised I don’t combust on the spot.
She scoots back a few more feet before giving me a seething glare that’s filled with contempt. “Why?”
“What?”
“Why won’t you let anyone hurt me?” she demands.
“Excuse me?”
“Answer the question.”
“You want me to tell you why I refuse to let anyone hurt you?”
I can’t help the sarcasm that slips into my question. She’s lost her damn mind.
“Yeah. That’s what I want you to tell me.”
“Because I’m a decent human being?” I offer, my voice dripping with the same sarcasm as before while I race to catch up with why the hell she’s suddenly pissed at me.
Hello, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
Surprising me with her malice, she scoffs. “Says the big, bad mafia man. Tell me, Diece, how many damsels have you saved, huh? Did they suck you off to say thank you? Is that what you want from me? Or maybe it’s my precious virginity that you’re hoping to take. Is that it? I got big news for you, buddy. All my other holes have already been used over and over again, so I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. My hymen might be intact, but my innocence has already been ripped away from me in ways you can’t even imagine. Now, get out of my room and keep your empty promises to yourself.”
Feeling whiplashed, I jerk away from her. “Q—”
“I said get out!” she shouts, shoving me away from her. I stand to my full height and rub my hand against my face as I find myself helpless for the first time in my life.
“What do you want me to say, Q?”
Pulling a pillow to her chest, she curls onto her side and stares blankly at the wall behind me. But she doesn’t answer me.
It’s like I don’t exist anymore.
Not to her.
The realization burns, though I refuse to acknowledge why.
And it’s all because I promised to keep her safe. Maybe she’s right, though. Maybe she doesn’t need a hero. Maybe she needs to learn how to defend herself. And I’m going to teach her how.
I sleep like shit, tossing and turning all night, but I’m grateful when I don’t wake up to any more screaming from Q’s room. In the kitchen, I find some eggs and whip together a quick breakfast before knocking on Q’s door with a plate in hand.
She doesn’t acknowledge my presence even though I can see her sitting on her bed.
Fighting back my annoyance, I call out, “Hey, can I come in?”