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However, if Tyson saw me walking down the street, there’d be hell to pay.
I’d have to figure that out later.
I didn’t know why Zaqiel was asking.
The question would hold a certain level of foreboding if it were asked by anyone else. But I figured he was asking out of genuine concern. That’s what I liked to tell myself anyway. It helped with the illusion of a happy family I was painting in my mind to help with the pain.
And to also trick myself into thinking someone like him could have an interest in me beyond his duty of care.
“No, they won’t come looking for me.”
He nodded but didn’t ask any follow-up questions. Kneeling by the edge of the bathtub, he washed my back. There were no open wounds there, only a large bruise and graze from where Paul had thrown me against the edge of a desk.
As Zaqiel traced his fingers across my back, I relaxed into his touch.
Until I realized what he was doing.
My back stiffened, and I whimpered. Gritting my teeth against any further sound, I paused, hoping he hadn’t heard. His ministrations had stopped, and he was looking at me with the slightest frown. It was the first expression he had shown since we entered the bathroom.
He had been tracing the lines of the scars on my back, some of the worst ones I had.
A parting gift from my last foster father.
“Please,” I whispered. I hated how weak and pathetic my voice sounded. Most of the time, I could push the memories away, but I was vulnerable here. Naked, with this man caring for me and nothing sexual about his touch, only a simple show of one human caring for another in their time of need. I hadn’t felt this defenseless in a long time, and I didn’t like it. Swallowing against the emotion threatening to take me over, I repeated, “Please… don’t.”
“Who hurt you?” he whispered.
I expected to hear pity in his voice, but underneath the monotone was something bordering on rage.
The trance was broken. The fantasy world I had created so I could enjoy this moment had been shattered, and I could feel his fingers hovering just over my back, but not quite touching. Shifting my shoulders so my back was away from him, I curled my knees to my chest and stared at the tiled wall.
Who hurt me?I thought.
“Everyone,” I answered.
ZAQIEL
Everyone.
What’s wrong with this world?
How did it get like this?
There had never been a day where men weren’t fighting among men. We created Utopia, and they simply couldn’t get along.
I finished bathing Evie in silence. She didn’t look at me.
I had crossed a line, and I knew that.
Don’t.
She said don’t, but I couldn’t help it.Don’t ask. You don’t want to know.Underneath the tough exterior—the one she built to survive in this world, in this city—there was a wounded woman, carrying scars far deeper than the ones that ran across her body. I wanted to tell her the scars were beautiful, they spoke of someone stronger than she knew, and that while they told a story of pain and suffering, they also told of resilience and fight, of a will to live, to keep going no matter what.
One of the things I admired about humanity ran deep and strong in her veins.
There were so many things I wanted to tell her—I had seen her before and had protected her once without her even knowing.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
