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Chapter 18
When I was a kid,my mother tried to treat one of my black eyes with a warm compress, swearing that the heat would cause the blood to separate and expand, and that I’d be able to go to school the next day without feeling embarrassed about getting into another fight.
It didn’t work; instead, the heat caused my skin to swell, blurring my vision in that eye for two whole days. I wore a patch to school, shame flaring in my cheeks as the other girls whispered and pointed, like black eyes in a private, Catholic all-girls school weren’t a common occurrence.
All of us had more pent-up rage than our tiny bodies could handle, a result of the life we’d been born into that had us repress everything, and it often manifested at recess in the form of flying fists and discarded boots.
My parents never asked what happened when I came home with a new cut or bruise, but there was always a little glint in Papá’s eyes that filled my chest with a gooey warmth. One that silently said he was proud of me for fighting, even if he didn’t know the circumstances.
It didn’t matter, because as a Ricci, fighting is in my blood. It’s expected.
Encouraged, within reason.
So when I pry my eyes open and am met by the harsh, disgruntled glare of my husband, I’m momentarily taken aback. Mainly because I don’t know why he’s glaring at me.
Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I look around the room, recognizing the black furniture and drapes covering the windows of our bedroom. If not for the dim glow of the bedside lamp, we’d be entrenched in complete darkness.
“Hi,” I croak, the one word like fire scraping up my esophagus.
“Drink,” Kal deadpans, holding out a Styrofoam cup with a straw. So straight and to the point, completely devoid of any emotion as he meets my gaze.
Not even a hint of relief.
Talk about bad bedside manners. I always heard that Dr. Anderson was efficient, yet ice cold when dealing with patients, but until now I’ve never seen it in action.
It’s... powerful, his tone leaving no room for argument. A stark contrast from the calm, yet passionate man I’ve come to know, though I suppose there’s very little room for passion in a medical setting.
I take the drink, sipping gingerly, trying to keep my cool even as the liquid sears the inside of my raw throat.
Closing my lips around the straw, I study him as his gaze drops to my chin. He’s wearing the suit I last saw him in, though it’s now rumpled and sporting various degrees of stains, and his hair is completely disheveled, sticking up at odd angles as though he’s continually running his hands through it.
I wonder if he feels bad about leaving you.
Probably not, I muse silently, switching focus to the aches decorating my body.
My eye has a pulse, I realize, timing each painful throb with the beat of my heart, and every one of my muscles feels ragged and torn, like I’ve just run a marathon without proper training beforehand.
Setting the cup on the bedside table, I stretch my arms above my head, wincing as a sharp sensation lances through me, making my body convulse. Dropping them, I reach up and run a hand through my hair, pausing when I meet tough resistance.
“What...” I start, pulling it past my chin to inspect the issue. A clear substance mats the strands together, and I wrinkle my nose, trying to place the scent.
“You don’t want to know,” Kal grits out, clasping his hands together.
Gaping, I raise my eyebrows. “What happened?”
“Some men found you in that bus station,” he says, voice low and dangerous as it lashes against my skin. “I don’t know who they are, or if they’re affiliated with something larger, but I suppose it doesn’t really matter. The damage is done.”
Nausea rocks through me, bubbling up at the back of my throat. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to recall the events beyond when I slipped into unconsciousness, but everything comes up hazy. A blurred film with no sound, only the sensation of being trapped.
A feeling I’ve spent my whole life trying to escape, only to continually find myself wrapped in its arms.
“What did they do to me?”
His jaw tics, a muscle thumping against his skin. “I don’t know. I’ve been waiting for you to wake up so we could find out.”
Tears burn my eyes again, and I drop my hair, ready to brush them from my cheeks when they spill over.
But they never do. I can feel them welling, scorching my eyes with their presence, but none fall. Shame rolls through me like an angry tidal wave, making me tremble violently, and I curl my hands into fists, trying to stave off the fear and confusion.
