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Too quiet.
"I have to go out for a little bit."
"What?"
"I have to leave for a while."
At first, I think he's joking. But it becomes obvious that this time he isn't. I'm not really concerned with the why, because this could be it. My chance.
"Okay."
He's quiet again. Thinking again. Watching me while he eats his apple.
"It's been too long."
"What do you mean?"
"He should have been back by now."
I swallow. Tell myself I don't care. It doesn't matter. Javi doesn't mean anything to me. If he's gone, then it means I can be free again. It's what I should be thinking. Instead, something else comes out of my mouth.
"Is he okay?"
River shrugs like it's not a big deal. But he looks concerned. As concerned as a psychopath can be, I suppose.
"Come with me for a minute," he says. "I need to show you something."
I close the book and stand up. He walks down the hallway, and I follow. He pauses at the door to Javi's master suite and gestures to a piece of paper on the bedside table. I move to inspect it, only to realize it was a trick when River shuts the door behind me and engages the lock.
"What the hell?"
I pound on the door.
"Let me out."
"Sorry, princess. No can do. Gotta make sure you don't cause any mischief while I'm gone."
"I won't," I lie. "Please don't leave me locked in here."
"You have everything you need in there. I'll be back soon."
"But what if you're not?" I ask. "What if something happens and you can't come back?"
Silence is the only response I get. Because he's gone. And when I turn around, I'm not any more relieved to see that he was right. He has, in fact, stocked the room with everything I could need.
For what looks like a year.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
IT'S BEEN THREE DAYS.
Three long, never-ending days.
While River supplied me with food and books, he didn't supply me with my journal. So I have my thoughts, but nothing to write them down with.
I sing the new lyrics on repeat so that I can remember. I take baths. I eat the food he left in here for me. I attempt to read. But my mind is elsewhere. Scattered. Wondering what's happening.
Where is Javi? What is he doing?
I don't have to wonder long. On the fourth day, River returns. I want to slap him when he opens the door. But the expression on his face is grim.
"What is it?" I ask.
My stomach flips, and I'm afraid to hear whatever it is he has to say. He gestures for me to follow him. Something that didn't bode well for me before, but this time, I trust his intentions aren't trickery.
I shuffle along beside him to keep up with his long strides.
"How are you with blood?" he asks.
I stop. He turns around and sighs.
"He's been hurt."
His words urge me forward again, and we are walking in tandem now. He leads me to the conservatory. The same bed where Javi first held me captive is where he now rests, motionless. It isn't until I am close that I see him.
And I gasp.
"What happened?"
His clothes are shredded. Covered in blood and gravel.
But it's his face.
His face that is no longer hidden beneath the hood. He looks like he's sleeping. But his face is battered and swollen. He's been beaten.
Repeatedly.
"Motorcycle accident," River tells me.
I turn to him and glare.
"Don't lie to me."
"What does it matter?" River barks. "Can you help him or not?"
I hesitate. Unsure of myself.
"He should be in a hospital."
Now River really does look at me like I'm stupid.
"He can't be in a hospital, Bella. He can't ever go back to a place like that. I had to drug him just to get him back here."
Relief swells inside of me- if only briefly. He's drugged, not knocked out. That is something, I guess.
But the level of his injuries is not something I should be dealing with. He could have a concussion. He could have broken bones. There could be internal bleeding. There could be a whole host of things that I can't fix. But when I look at Javi, I know River is right.
He can't go to a hospital. He won't. Not after his mother. Not after the sanitarium.
"I'll do my best," I whisper.
River nods and gestures to the chair beside the bed. It’s stacked with first aid supplies.
"I don't like to watch," he says. "Be careful of him when he wakes up. He won't be pleasant."
"You're leaving?"
"I'll just be in the kitchen.”
I nod because I guess it's better this way. I don't need him here, questioning me. Watching my every move and second guessing me when I'll be doing enough of that myself.
He moves to go. And then pauses.
"Bella?"
"Yes?"
"Hurt him, and I'll kill you."
I’M NEVER SUPPOSED to see him. He would never allow me to see him.
But right now, he is powerless. And it feels wrong, as I cut away his clothing, knowing he would not like this. But it also feels right.
I am at war with my own thoughts.
Part of me feels guilty for wanting this. For finally feeding the monster inside of me who craves this. The one who has wondered for so long what that dark figure looks like when he doesn’t have a shadow to hide behind. What this killer is hiding beneath the hoods he wears.
My mind has conjured up so many different things. But my imagination never could have prepared me for the reality.
He is massive. Imposing, even in a dead sleep. And he is completely naked now except for the black jocks stretched across his hips.
His body is a mural of muscle and ink. Muscles that have been well built and well-utilized stretch over the canvas of his frame. An array of colorful ink kisses almost every visible inch of his arms and chest. He is beautiful and utterly terrifying.
I knew this all along. But confronting it in such a visually violent way is a horse of a different color.
I finally have the chance to study his face. The long, jagged scar that cuts across his forehead and all the way down to his cheek. My fingers hover over that scar. Wanting to touch. Wanting to heal.
I’ve always known his scars existed, but the extent of them is shocking. There are so many. Angry and red. Deep and thick. Some are small and round, others stretched and jagged. They litter his chest and abdomen, biceps and even his neck. But the most notable is the scar intersecting the crest of his dark eyebrow.
It makes him look like a warrior. And he is. Javi has been through so much. There is no denying it now. He was only a child when he was marked by these horrors.
My father never spoke of Javi’s scars. There was only one time when I caught him watching the news of the events that unfolded that night. He said that it was the perfect storm of circumstances.
Those words have haunted me for so long. They have instilled within me so many questions. Doubts about the things I read in Javi’s file. And perhaps justification for my baffling response to him.
My father knew Javi was dangerous, but he trusted him. He never came to harm while in his presence.
The few times my father did speak of Javi, it was with reverence. My dad was the smartest man I ever knew. And yet, he would say that Javi’s mind was the most incredible thing he’d ever beheld.
At this particular moment, faced with the beast himself, I would have to disagree.
It is his body.
Though scarred and hardened, he is a work o
f art. One so twisted, Poe could write infinite sonnets about the darkness he carries around with him. A beautiful monster.
I can’t look away from him. And I have never stared at anyone this way. He is bloodied and battered, and utterly gory. And still, he is the most captivating sight I have ever beheld.
I need to get a grip. I need to help him. Fix him. But I don't even know where to begin.
There is gravel lodged deep into the skin of his knees. His elbows. Fresh cuts litter his body. I take note of them all, categorizing them into order of severity. I decide to start with his face first. While he is still asleep.
I know that River is right. When he wakes up, he won't be happy. So, I need to work fast.
The cut on his cheek is the worst by far, and this is the one I start with. Little by little, I cleanse the blood from his face with a wet cloth. Seeing him in a different light.
He is still rigid. So rough around the edges. His beard is wild, and so is his long dark hair, pulled back into an untidy bun. It's an odd thing. I had no idea his hair was so long.
I wonder when it was last cut. And then I realize, he has nobody to cut it for him. But when I smooth it away from his face, I also realize it doesn’t need to be cut. Not really.
He’s a Neanderthal. But it works for him. For his masculine bone structure. His oversized frame. Even with all of his hardness, there is still something soft about him too. At least like this. When he’s asleep. His face is relaxed. At peace.
His lips soft and full, and his nose strong. His skin is softer than I expected. Naturally olive in complexion. His hair and his beard are dark. But even those are soft.
I drink in his features while I can. Pausing my work every so often just to stare at him. To try to make sense of this beast of a man before me. But he is a puzzle I still haven't figured out.
And there isn't time now.
I feel him beginning to stir. When I go to work on the gravel, drawing it from his skin, he wakes completely. There isn't time to prepare myself for his reaction. It is instinctive.
A wounded predator, cornered.
He launches his hand upright and seizes me by the throat. His breathing is harsh. Labored. And his eyes are vulnerable. So vulnerable. The wildest eyes I have ever seen.
"Javi."
My hand covers his, but I don't struggle with him. I don't resist. He needs reassurance right now. And that's what I intend to give him.
