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"It’s," she swallows, "it’s nothing."
"It’s something." I scowl, "Go on, you can tell me."
"No really, it’s just, uh, a scratch."
"It didn’t seem like a scratch when he drew it onto my skin with his knife."
She walks over to the bed, "Why don’t you lie down on your front so I can bandage it?"
"Not before you tell me what it says."
“No,” she shakes her head. "Really, Karma, you should let it go."
"You do realize that refusing to tell me what he drew on me is only making me even more determined to find out what it is, right?"
I march back inside the bathroom, turn my back to the mirror, then lift my T-shirt, twist around and try to make out what the hell he carved into my skin. I catch sight of the edge of what looks like a letter. Huh, did he write something on me? What could it be? His name, maybe? Perhaps a declaration of his love?
My heart begins to thud in my chest. Maybe he’d done it and then he’d been upset about it, and that’s why he had pushed me away. My capo hates being vulnerable. It’s probably why he had asked Seb to drive me here. He probably needed some time to come to terms with having bared his soul to me. That’s why he had turned away from me and driven away. Yeah, that’s what it is. But why would Cassandra gasp like that?
I arch my neck, trying to sneak a peek. Oh, bloody hell, can’t see a thing yet. My spine protests and my side hurts. I turn back, glare toward where she is hovering at the doorway to the bathroom. "Come, on, Cassandra," I whine, "you have to tell me what it is."
"I can’t."
"If you don’t, I won’t let you clean the wound and bandage it, and then the Capo will be angry with you."
Her shoulders slump. "Please, Karma," she says in a low voice, "you are not going to like it."
"Oh, please," I swipe my hair over my shoulder, "I am a big girl; I can take it. Besides, I have an inkling what it could be."
"You do?"
I nod, can’t stop myself from smiling. "Sure, he’s my husband, remember? We already had a fond reunion," I smirk, "earlier at the chapel. Trust me when I say that it won’t be a surprise for me."
She hesitates.
"Come on, please, Cassandra, please," I beg.
She blows out a breath, then walks over with the first-aid kit that she places on the counter near the sink.
She begins to roll up the back of my T-shirt and I turn my head, "Well?" I scowl, "Are you going to tell me, or what?"
"Whore," she mumbles.
"Excuse me?"
"Whore." She grimaces. "He wrote, whore."
