by Xavier Neal
“Upon your arrival, a blood sample was taken for testing. The onsite medic who had tended to you during your transport gave you an in the field stabilizer meant to neutralize foreign agents in your system long enough to get you here. You were immediately hooked to IV’s to flush your system of what we believed were toxins while simultaneously rehydrating you. He also mentioned that could be a factor of your unconsciousness. Between your system being flushed and trying for a physical examination of more than just your vitals, you came to in a rather…violent demeanor.”
I nervously shift as a response.
“Your…overly combative nature led to us having to sedate you. This was a…somewhat risky decision given the state of your pregnancy and the chemical compound that was already in your system. It’s one I’m…more familiar with than I like, honestly. It’s given with the intention to keep the person in a conscious but paralytic state, meaning you can see and feel but can’t react to whatever is happening to you. The dose you were administered was intended to have effects that lasted between eight to twelve hours.”
Eight to twelve hours?!
He was gonna let Mr. Raven rape me for eight to twelve fucking hours?!
Or, were there other men waiting?
Was Cobb next?
I thoughtlessly cower into the mattress.
“We were able to cleanse your system, but your…hysterical response when you awoke is what led to sedation not being an option but a must. There were other tests that had to be done, including ones regarding the state of your pregnancy.”
Her repeated use of the P word causes me to nervously shift again.
“From my eventual examination, I did not find any vaginal or anal tearing or any other signs of trauma indicative of forced penetration.”
That means other than the brainwashed Bratz Dolls molesting me, and Mr. Raven’s initial prodding while he whispered promises, nothing else happened.
Thank fuck for that…
What I did endure was…enough.
More than enough.
“I did, however, find some small lesions and puncture marks that raised concern, especially when combined with the severe dehydration and malnourishment you were facing. While I want to believe this hasn’t done damage to the embryo, I can’t conclusively give you those types of answers without running more tests, which is why I had Jazzy draw another vile.”
Beni’s body becomes noticeably rigid, yet again.
He’s worried I’ve lost his heir.
What if I have?
Is it more important to have me live or is it?
Can he forgive me if I couldn’t fight for me and our baby hard enough?
Will I be labeled weak and worthless and unworthy to be his wife?
“For now, Miss Brooks,” Dr. Gregory centers my focus on her again, “our plan proceeding forward is quite simple. Rest is at the top of your priorities at this time and keeping stress minimal. I understand you have been through…unimaginable trauma, so asking you to be calm seems condescending-”
“Un po,” Miko mumbles under his breath.
A little bit.
“-but let me reassure you, it isn’t. It’s necessary to keep the fragile state of your embryo from becoming more fragile. I am ordering bed rest for now and for Mr. Bennett and Mr. Tritelli to keep all invasive questions to a minimum until we have a better understanding of where your body is physically speaking. Do you understand?”
I once more bob my head.
“Good. Mr. Bennett, Mr. Tritelli, do you understand?”
There’s obvious reluctance out of them both.
Miko presents her with a half-hearted, “Yeah.”
“Good. Mr. Bennett?”
My fiancé’s glower deepens on a heavy sigh, “I do not like it, but if it is what’s…best for her and our child, then yes. I will abide by your request for the time being.”
“Perfect.” Her professional smile of comfort slides onto her face during her turn to face me. “When you’re ready to discuss what occurred during your…kid-”
“No,” Beni instantly bites.
“Yeah…not that word,” Miko quietly insists. “Remember? He hates that word.”
“Right,” Dr Gregory acknowledges on a small facial twitch. “When you’re ready to discuss what occurred during your…abduction, feel free, but if you at any point feel yourself getting too worked up or upset, just stop. Change topics or rest. I’ll be back in a bit to check in again.”
She dismisses herself, which prompts Beni to give his best friend a stern look to follow.
Despite Miko’s hesitation appearing once more, he begrudgingly surrenders, “I’m gonna step outside. Make a couple calls. Maybe bang a nurse. You know…give you two some privacy.”
The urge to scold him soars to the tip of my tongue, and his blue eyes pierce my brown as though longing to hear me chastise him for his horn dog choices. My mouth cracks open, yet immediately closes.
No.
I’m not…I’m not ready to just hop back into the saddle of how shit used to be.
I’m not ready to pretend everything is fine.
That I’ve moved on already.
That I wasn’t tortured.
Molested.
Almost raped.
Possibly lost a child in the process.
Shame sinks me further into the sheets and sends my stare to my covered feet.
No words are exchanged between the two, but tension in the room increases to Boggle contested champion proportions.
After the door shuts with Miko on the other side of it, Beni lowers himself to the edge of my bed while maintaining his hold on my hand. For a brief moment, he says nothing. Simply stares. Leans over to brush the strands away from my eyes. Studies my responses to his touch like they’re saying everything I’m not quite sure I’m ready to say yet.
His voice – something that has never lied to me – struggles not to shake. “Mi dispiace tanto, Mia Bella, mi ci è voluto così tanto tempo.” He lets his gaze drop to where our hands are joined prior to criticizing himself in a whisper, “English, Benicio. Use. English for God’s sake.”
My heart aches in desperation to remind him that I love when he speaks Italian.
That I love when he translates for me.
That I love the dynamic we had that was almost completely lost.
“I'm so sorry, Mia Bella, it took me so long.” The transcribing is accompanied by a loving squeeze of the hand. “You should’ve never been away from me for this long. You should’ve never…had to…,” his voice cracks against his own volition, “you should’ve never been-” He chomps short the sentence end and swallows it. “I hope you know we didn’t stop looking for you, and had I not found you yet, I would’ve kept looking.”
His emotional proclamation pulls tears to the lids of my eyes again.
“Not finding you, Mia Bella, was never an option.”
The first one falls.
“Living life without you was never a notion I entertained. I want you to know that. Ho bisogno che tu lo sappia.”
I need you to know that.
“You are my life, Chantal. Where it begins. Where it ends. Why it is.”
More tears start to stream down my face.
“No price is too high, and no effort is too much for you or our child.”
Thoughtlessly my free hand clutches my stomach.
There’s the shortest, most sterile pause accompanied by undeniable anguish, “Perché non me l'hai detto?”
The hand continues to glide around until I’m cradling my lower torso.
“Why didn’t you tell me you thought you were pregnant? Why did I have to fucking read about it in your journal?”
Outrage immediately widens my eyes, banishing the remaining tears.
He read my fucking journal?!
The only part of me that hadn’t been violated, he took upon himself to do?
To fondle my intimate thoughts without my permission?
Without my fucking conse
nt?
Is there any part of me left that hasn’t been groped against its will?
“I read them in search of information,” Beni swiftly explains. “You have such a brilliant and observant mind that it was probable you had scribbled a crucial detail you believed to be moot. Reading your journal was initially done from a purely tactical position.”
Initially?
Meaning he kept going once he found nothing.
“However…,” vulnerability creeps into his choked voice again, “eventually I was reading your words because it made me feel close to you.” His own bleary stare falls back to our joint hold. “Not knowing where you were or if you were okay left me feeling so…far from you that I…broke that bond of trust I swore I wouldn’t. Many things were done out of desperation during the pursuit to return you home, Mia Bella…”
Why do I feel as though that was at the bottom of a very grim list?
When Beni’s eyes lift to mine, he whispers, “And, I’d do them all again.”
I’m not given a chance to truly process the power of his words.
He lets go of my fingers, dives into his pocket, and retrieves my engagement ring. Carefully, he reaches over for my left hand and returns it to its rightful home. The instant it’s there, tears steadily start streaming at such a rapid velocity it shakes my entire frame.
“Voglio tenerti in braccia,” he quietly announces. “I want to hold you.”
The fact that he doesn’t reach out for me, doesn’t force me, doesn’t assume it’s what I want only makes me cry harder.
How does he know I need this level of respect re-instilled?
How does he know now is the time to be this gentle?
Understanding?
How does he know I need Beni instead of Sir or Mr. Bennett?
“Posso per favore?”
May I, please?
With the very little strength I can snatch, I intentionally speak for the first time since I awoke, “Sì.”
His arms swoop around me so that I’m trapped to his chest.
I’m only given the briefest moment to inhale the clean scented cologne I love for him to wear because then his hold is too tight to breathe in.
Too tight to shake in.
Too tight to fucking think in.
And, for all of that, I’m so fucking grateful.
Chapter 9
“Parla con me.”
Talk to me.
Chantal’s attention remains plastered on the flat screen T.V. hung on the wall in front of her.
She’s not laughing.
There’s no smiling.
Nothing to indicate she’s even amused by what she’s watching.
Death-gripping my composure, I continue to push like I have for the last forty-five minutes, “You have barely spoken in the past four days, Mia Bella.”
Still nothing.
To say these past few days are everything I envisioned them to be in her absence would be a lie. They haven’t been remotely close. The woman who was taken from me was this eyebrow-raising, smirk-inducing, force that was impossible not to be intoxicated by. She was lively and quick-witted. She was smart. Fearless. The woman who I returned with is none of those things. She is a mere shell of the person I knew. She flinches at loud noises. Only eats enough to keep the doctor from complaining. Sobs unconsolably at the sight of a hairbrush. Her triggers are not known, because she refuses to talk, so it’s impossible not to set her off.
It’s impossible not to break the broken, brown-skinned beauty even more, yet all I want to do…all I dream of is restoring her to her former glory.
Resurrecting the soldier, I need at my side.
Reviving the warrior Luther gave me his blessing to love forever.
The warrior he would want to avenge his somewhat untimely death.
I keep my gaze pinned to the curtain of hair blocking the side of her face and ask, “Would you like to talk about Luther?” My body leans slightly to the side to get a better glimpse of her face. “His last medical reports came in with his autopsy.” When there’s no change, I proceed in hopes the information will receive some sort of response, “He had a brain tumor.”
A slow blink is presented.
“Its location and abnormal growth were making it harder for him to handle. Despite Rose’s betrayal of trust, there were no signs of foul play. His toxicology report had all of the appropriate prescriptions, indicating he’d been taking his doses properly. According to our inhouse research, every appointment she claimed to have taken him to, she did.”
Chantal’s neck slightly moves from swallowing.
“There’s nothing to suspect her true intention was to ever hurt him. Per lei era semplicemente una pedina,” I pause, hand twirling in the air to inspire the translation, “He was simply a pawn to her the way she was a pawn to someone else.”
The statement, which should enrage her, if nothing else, receives absolutely nothing.
“Rose’s death like that of others has been handled.”
I choose to leave out the additional information in regard to not knowing who exactly handled it.
“His home and his things are all untouched. They will remain that way until it is safe for you to properly go through them.”
Possible tears are brushed off by a sniffle.
Frustration propels me back into the seat I’m occupying at her bedside in tandem to people laughing on the T.V. Feeling as though I’m being laughed at, I cut the screen a glance, unsure why she’s mesmerized by this particular show. There are no fantasy elements. It doesn’t possess suspense. From the bits I’ve picked up over the past couple of days, it’s filled with annoying amounts of drama and unnecessary angst. I also find the male lead to be an aggravating idiot; however, Miko says it’s because the guy is just like me.
He isn’t.
He’s some half-brained, secretly insecure MMA fighter too stupid to confess to the woman he loves that he loves her.
It’s moronic.
Juvenile.
It’s not how I behave, and why the love of my life finds comfort in this crap is another question she won’t answer.
“Mia Bella,” I unhappily huff out, “could you…at least…guardami mentre parlo.” My hand casually cuts through the air for a second time. “Look at me while I talk.”
She immediately hits the pause button igniting the wick of hope. Her hand maintains its grip on the remote like it’s the only weapon she’s capable of wielding while her gaze continues straight ahead, silently refusing to turn my direction.
Irritation wins once more forcing me to snap, “Is this your version of fucking compromise?”
There’s no hesitation to press play or return to her seemingly mindless staring.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” my mumbled complaint is attached to me rubbing the side of my temple. “Non puoi semplicemente...continuare ad escludermi per quella cazzo di television.” New annoyance bubbles over having to translate for her, something I used to adore. Something she used to adore. “You can’t just…continue to shut me out for the fucking television, Mia Bella.”
Chantal promptly increases the volume in what can only be branded as defiance.
Part of me wants to smirk.
Do whatever it takes to latch onto the reminiscence I randomly cross of the woman I fell in love with.
I know she’s…in there.
Buried.
I just don’t know which shovel to use to dig her up.
Or, which treat to entice her to crawl out of the dark cave she’s cowering in.
“Will you talk to Cerise if I have her brought to the premises?”
No response.
She barely talked to her during their video chat last night. Her best friend cried and rambled sentiments of gratitude. Cerise asked a million questions and got no answers, either. Eventually, she abandoned the notion to prod for information, and surrendered to more casual conversation. She lightly touched on work gossip – something about a love triangle and a failed STD test
, which would’ve normally intrigued Chantal – before droning on about their inevitable return to house hunting. My fiancée’s expression remained quite empty throughout the stint; however, just like a moment ago where a flicker of who she really is flashed, it did then, too. Cerise said something about Sherrod wanting plaid wallpaper, and she cringed.
Fucking.
Cringed.
It was the most unattractive face, yet the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in days.
Emotion.
Signs of actual life.
They are so few and far between that when they’re exposed, I can’t resist devouring them.
The status of her pregnancy…our…unborn child doesn’t even conjure up a notable response.
Everything Dr. Gregory says in its regard is received with a nod of comprehension and then executed in her actions. Anything that’s advised is willingly done. Whether it’s to drink more fluids or have a second helping of something for our heir’s sake, there’s no reluctance to complete it. On the contrary, there’s also no signs that this child is something she wants nor any indication that she’s happy to have had it survive whatever it is she’s gone through.
Whatever it is, she won’t talk about.
Fuck, I need her to talk.
It pains me to make the next suggestion, “Will you talk to Miko?”
Her muteness is maintained.
“Jazzy?”
Nothing.
Dissatisfaction darts me out of my seat, forcing the chair to crash to the ground. “Devi parlare con qualcuno!”
You have to talk to someone.
“Anyone!”
The lack of acknowledgment continues.
“You can’t simply sit around and keep whatever’s going on in that beautiful mind of yours locked in there!” Pacing seems to be the only option to keep my temper at a lower simmer. “It is unhealthy for you to keep your emotions inside.” Her stillness forces me to apply more pressure. “It is unhealthy for our child. Certainly, you care about that, sì?”