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“What happened next?” he prods, but his voice lacks the venom I’m used to.
“Robert got angry. I had an…accident, and he was stillborn,” I croak. “They took him away before I could even hold him. See him. I never got the chance…”
I shake my head and lock the images away before they can descend.
“I’ve never spoken about it before.”
Mischa is silent for so long that I think he’s satisfied. Finally, he makes a low sound in his throat as if he just solved a tricky puzzle.
“Robert. It washisname you call out in your sleep,” he deduces. “Not—”
“Yes.” A dry swallow pushes the rest of the memories back. Turning to Mischa, I find him watching me, his expression more unreadable than ever. “Call me a bitch, or a whore, or Robert’s fucking wife—that’s fine. But don’t you dare for a second insinuate that I don’t know what pain feels like.”
Fire sears across my vision. I’m blinking too rapidly to see. Just blurred smears of light and shadow. Swiping at my eyes with the back of my hand, I start toward where I guess the door to be.
“Wait.”
Shock lances through me as he snatches my arm and tugs me backward. Why? So he can rub my nose in more agony?
“Here,” he grunts, and I jump as he presses something rough against my palm.
My trembling fingers struggle to identify it: coarse, gritty, bloodstained fabric, I realize looking down. While I’m caught by his grip, he forces me to unfurl the rag and lift it to his jaw.
Up this close, there’s no telling just who the blood belongs to. The girl? Him? Another? There’s just so damn much of it. I can taste the salt on my tongue, cloying there like so many spilled secrets and dark memories.
Grunting, Mischa presses my hand to his cheek, issuing a silent command.Clean me up.
I watch my hand contort and move seemingly on its own, rubbing ineffectively at the drying substance. He’ll need water and soap if he wants to make a real difference. Still, he makes me rub and scrub until he’s only symbolically clean.
To him, maybe that’s enough.
