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“No more,” I mumble, my throat hoarse, only vaguely aware that I’m now being held within strong arms, cradled against a firm chest that belongs to a man that has killed me once and saved me twice.
Leon.
He’s as familiar to me now as my own skin. He’s the boy I once thought was an angel and the man I now know to be a monster. He’s still wearing the purple mask I saw him in earlier, the green of his eyes popping against the opposing colour.
“You can’t leave,” he says gruffly, his mouth brushing against my forehead, the water sloshing around my naked skin as he lowers us beneath the surface. My fingers press against the material of his purple shirt, it’s sodden.
I stare at my hand, pressed against his chest. I should punch him, scream, pull off his mask and rip at his skin with my nails.
I should fight him off.
I do none of that.
All my fight has depleted.
Every last ounce of strength has drained away.
I’m neither tense, nor relaxed in his hold. I just am.
He senses that, his fingers gripping onto my upper arm and thigh, bruising my skin no doubt.
But I feel nothing. I feelnothing.
I’ve become everything they wanted.
“Leon, let me take her now,” Thirteen says, as she kneels beside the bath and urges him to get out. I hadn’t even noticed she’d entered the room.
“No. Give me a minute.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Youwilldo that. I won’t hurt her,” he insists.
“But I—”
“Get out. Now, Thirteen!”
She hesitates. I can hear the rise and fall of her breath as she makes a decision. I don’t intervene. I don’t care if she stays or goes.
I don’t care.
“I’ll be just in the other room, Christy. Ipromise.”
I’m vaguely aware of her quiet footsteps as she leaves me with the man who took my breath and stopped my heart only a couple of days ago. That should hurt. It doesn’t. My vision blurs, not with tears but with apathy. Sounds become distant as I sink into myself, my head resting against his chest as I stare off into the distance.
“Stay with me,” Leon demands, the tenor of his voice exacting.
I don’t answer. Not because I’m feeling stubborn or because I want to get a rise out of him, but because I have no energy left to form the words. I half expect him to react with brutality, with cold, hard hatred. To shake me into action.
He doesn’t.
Instead he rests on a ledge beneath the surface of the water and balances me in his arms, grabs a cloth from the side of the bath, and begins to wash me with it.
“She brought you back, you know. Her and Five. I watched her bring you back after I took your life…” He sighs, letting out a tremulous breath as he washes my face, a frown creasing his brow as the cloth passes over the chain of bruises around my throat. Jewellery his hands decorated me with.
He’s gentle as he passes the cloth over my breasts and stomach.
He’s shaking when he dips it between my legs and cleans me there.
