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“I’ve been locked away this whole time! You can’t keep me trapped like he did. Tell me you won’t. Papa, please—you’re not like him—”
My hysteria barely requires any acting, but I’m still glad when he pulls me into his arms where I no longer have to worry about my expression.
“I’m not. No, darling, I’m not. How about this—you let Dr. Armata check you over, and then we can see about letting you go out for a while.”
God, the offer sickens me, but it’s worth a try. I drag my feet into the sitting room again.
Dr. Armata waits there, being served a coffee.
When I am a more cooperative patient, he makes me lay down on the couch. My skin crawls with reluctance. I’m relieved when he only does a few cursory checks and preps a syringe to take a blood sample. I suppose it’s not unthinkable that Salvatore could have been drugging me this whole time. I feel an ironic sense of relief at the sight of a needle and relax.
“Tell us what happened, Tessa,” my father prompts, trying to sound gentle about it.
I start to relay a brief, shorthand version of the truth. I was cornered by Salvatore in a club, forcibly taken to his house, locked away—these are not the details my father is looking for.
“What happened with Mori, and all those monsters that are loyal to him? What did they do to you?” he interrupts. My father would never suspect that Salvatore was deeply protective of me and would have never let anything happen to me—so long as I was under his watch.
“Nothing.”
It’s almost the truth. He and Armata exchange glances. The doctor finally intercedes, suggesting that physical examination will give us all a ‘clearer picture.’ My legs tighten together.
I don’t need any pictures down there, clear or otherwise, thank you very much.
“I don’t want that,” I insist, too frantically.
“Then I suppose you don’t want to go out, either—”
My fingers curl into themselves as I am treated like a child that doesn’t want to eat her vegetables.
But if he lets me go—if he lets me get back to him.
“Jesus Christ, at least leave the room!” I snap at him, flustered and humiliated.
Dr. Armata and I are left alone. Our face-off is a silent battle of wills until I finally pull down my jeans. I stare up at the ceiling, emotionally retreating someplace inside myself. Hatred sharpens itself inside me as I open my legs. I think only of getting back to Salvatore, fantasizing about what he would do to this man if he were here now.
The inspection is brief and telling. I do not look at his face when he pulls back and tells me to put my clothes back on.
I’m surprised to find tears on my face when Armata leaves to talk with my father. I scrub them away angrily, pulling up my jeans. My father steps into the room again, his expression dark and worn.
I glance at him out of the corner of my gaze.
“What?” I spit the word at him. His eyes are full of pity, his face grim and resolved.
“You still have so much promise, Tessa. I want you to know that. I will fix this. All of it.
It will be like it never happened.”
I ignore the reassurances.
“I’m going out,” I tell him again. My father moves toward his office, not acknowledging me.
“Did you hear me? Papa—”
He closes the office door between us.
Dr. Armata has gone.
Alone for the first time, I all but run to the front door.
