How?
The laugh that tries to claw its way out of me dies before it reaches my throat, leaving me as mute as ever. I let my hands fall into my lap, joining the blanket. Glancing down, I see that I’m still wearing the stained purple shirt I’ve had on for six damn weeks. At that moment, I know that I’d rather wear Connor’s comforter than stay in the same clothes for a second longer.
I grit my teeth, waiting for him to leave. My skin is crawling. I’m so fucking close to having a shower, and he’s still watching me with a newly unreadable expression on his face.
“Haven? Can you do that? Can you… can you talk to me?”
Has he figured it out? Does he know? Or does he think that my trauma has made me even more difficult instead of irrevocably broken?
I duck my chin to my chest.
“I’m not asking you to talk right now,” he adds. “I’m just telling you that, if you need something, I’ll be right outside thedoor. You can knock. Throw something. Hell, break some shit to get my attention. I promise you, I’ll be right there.”
That’s the problem. I don’t know why he will be—or if I can handle knowing that he’s out there—but he does exactly what he says. He leaves the bedroom, closing the door behind him, and I know for sure that, if I poke my head out into hall, he’ll be right there.
I don’t. Not when there’s the promise of getting clean for the first time in so long.
I wait a few minutes, just in case. When nobody comes back in, I force myself to move.
A simple shift across his sheets is all I manage before I lift my head and, for a second, freeze.
There’s a hole in the wall. I’m one hundred percent sure it wasn’t there before. Connor must’ve hidden it with his back while he was talking to me, but now that he’s gone, there’s no missing it.
I think of thethud. Of his quiet fury. Of his swollen knuckles.
He punched the wall. I flinched, prepared for him to hit me, and when he saw my frightened reaction, he turned and punched the wall—and I have no idea if I should be terrified or relieved.
In the end, I decide to completely ignore it. He promised me privacy for a shower, and I need to get into the bathroom before cocky Connor Heyward decides he knows what’s better for me and changes his mind about staying outside.
My legs shake when I climb out of the bed. The floor beneath my bare feet is hardwood. I’m careful not to put too much of my weight on my broken toes; Noah slammed his boot down on my foot last week when I tried to trip him, and while I set them as best as I could, they’re still purple and bruised. I test my strength, frustrated that—finally upright—I feel more than a little hungover.
My mouth is dry. I swallow a few times, then decide that this is as good as I’m going to get. I double-check that the bedroom door is still closed. Seeing that it is, I hobble to the bathroom, hurriedly locking myself inside of it.
The bathroom is larger than my entire cell.
That’s the first thought I have, and it makes me pause for a few seconds. White tile floor. Glass shower enclosure. A deep porcelain tub beneath a frosted window. A large sink over an ornate vanity that somehow suits the Heyward family’s understated wealth. On the side of the counter, he has a stack of lush folded towels with a pristine hairbrush on top. Inside the shower, I find a bar of soap, three different bath gels, two brands of shampoo and conditioner—including my favored brand—and a fresh washcloth.
That’s what I notice during my initial sweep. After that, I look a little harder. For the next two minutes, I search every corner of the space for some sort of hidden camera. Before Winter took me, I never would’ve even thought to do that. Now? I can’t imagine why Connor Heyward would put cameras in his private bathroom, but I’ll never take the illusion of privacy for granted again.
Only then, when the lure of the shower outweighs my fear that he will see my battered and bruised body naked, do I shrug off my old clothes, shuffle into the shower, and let the hot water do its best to wash the pain, the memories, and the fear away if just for a moment.
I stay under the spray until I’m sure I’m going to wilt away and slither down the drain with the rest of the water. I’ve scrubbed every inch of my body, lathered and wash my hair three times until I’ve separated out as many of the mats as I could, and feel partway human again as I shut the shower down.
Reaching for a towel, I knock the hairbrush into the sink. Panic rushes through me again. Was that sound loud enough todraw Connor’s attention, letting him think I need his help? With my heart in my throat, I stand there naked, clutching the towel to me.
Finally, I find the nerve to wrap it around me, covering my body up. I grab the hairbrush, ignoring the achy twinge in my arm as I run the bristles through my wet hair. It isn’t easy, but it’s worth it to have clean hair again that doesn’t smell disgusting.
The entire time I brushed my hair, I kept my back to the mirror. I just… I couldn't bring myself to look at my reflection. I know I won’t like what I see, and when I turn to place the hairbrush on the edge of the sink, I blanch when I accidentally get a peek.
After that, it’s like a trainwreck. I know better than to look too closely, but a morbid sense of curiosity has me unable to turn away.
The woman in the mirror has pale skin that almost appears grey beneath the bathroom lights. Her cheekbones are sharper than they used to be. Her mouth is split at one corner. There’s a yellowing bruise along her jaw, a darker one fading around her wrist, and fingerprints on her upper arm that probably belong to Cam after he jerked me around during our trip to the warehouse.
Her damp hair hangs around her shoulders, falling forward like a curtain. Her eyes are shadowed, the stark expression in their depths a hint of the shit she went through.
Haven.
I’mHaven.
