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When he looks at my face again, I can’t hold his gaze. It’s too much, too overwhelming. He’s seen too fucking much.
I hate that nickname he’s given me. Little Kitty. Wounded, fragile little kitty. Broken little kitty. Little kitty who is alone and pathetic and helpless.
Fuck. Fuck him, I think, trying to steel myself, to swallow down all the emotions.
“Madelena,” he says, my name a command.
I raise my gaze to his because I have no choice.
“The cuts are old,” he says in a tone that seems barely controlled. “We will discuss those.”
We won’t. I can’t. He won’t understand. I barely understand.
“But there’s a more pressing matter,” he continues, and I’m relieved for exactly one split second. “The welts, they’re fresh. That’s why the painkillers.”
I swallow. I mean to nod even though he didn’t ask it as a question, but I’m not sure I can.
“Who did this to you?” he asks, voice ragged and low and unrecognizable.
I just stare at him, unable to answer, to do anything but stare at this man who is different than I expected him to be. Because what would he do to the man who did this? Who truly did hurt me? Who more than touched what is his?
I’ve seen what he’s capable of, and I have a feeling it’s the tip of the iceberg. If he gets his hands on the man who did this, what he did to Jason Cole will look gentle.
“Who did this to you, Madelena?” he asks again in that rough voice, the slightly unhinged one. But still, he’s controlled. He’s reining it in, whatever he’s feeling.
“It won’t happen again,” I say, not sure why because I can’t guarantee that. But there’s one more thing at play. He doesn’t understand that it could have been so much worse. It could have been Odin, not me. Odin, who still limps after so many years.
I hear him swallow, watch his Adam’s apple work. It’s easier than looking into his eyes.
“There are two men who had access to you. Your father and your brother.”
I flinch.
He stands, hands fists at his sides. “Which one of them did this?”
I look down at the bed, the pretty coverlet with the fleur-de-lis pattern. At my legs, at the chaos the belt left behind. Rage. This is the result of uncontrolled rage. When men lose control, it’s dangerous for the women in the room.
“Your brother was protective of you once. I remember that.”
I draw my knees up to sit on them, cover them with my dress. It’s too hard to look at him. But he takes my jaw with one giant hand and forces my face upward. I’m trembling all over, and I hug my arms around myself. He’s silent for a long, long time as that well of tears streams down my face.
“Who hurt what is mine?” he finally manages in a ragged, old voice. A broken voice. “Say it.”
“Please…” I shake my head.
“Say. It.”
It’s a command, a simple, straightforward command. He will not accept my silence. I jerk my head from his grasp. This man can play with me. He can taunt me with his touches, with his looks, but he can be my avenging angel, too. He has been that.
“If you don’t tell me, so help me, I will punish them both.”
“No!”
“Then say it. Tell me who hurt you.”
“Please, leave it. Please. You don’t understand. You don’t know—”
“Say. It.”
