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“Stubborn, or just the only person who won’t put up with your shit attitude?” Taking my focus off him, I get back to my original topic.
“I don’t have an attitude, Emelia. I have authority. Don’t mistake it.”
“Okay, stubborn, or thinks your authority needs to be knocked down a few pegs?”
Dishing it right back, he smirks. We aren’t fighting, and the banter is something I don’t think he would ever have with anyone else.
Aren’t I the lucky one?
Not.
“I don’t need friends. You are stubborn. And I feel morally sound. Anything else?” He changes course.
Pursing my lips and thinking hard, I decide to keep harping on him, but I change the question.
“Well, Nico, thank you for asking about me. I’m Emelia. I like to read. Sometimes, I like nature—if it doesn’t bite me. And I love ice skating,” I admit.
“Ice skating? Why that?”
“Don’t sound so shocked. It's ice skating. You kill people for a living. I think you take the trophy for shock factor, my friend.”
“I’m just curious. Why skating?”
“Because it makes me feel like I’m…” I think about this. What’s the best way to describe freedom to a man who has never had to worry about it his entire life. The ice is the only place I ever thrived—the only safety net I could fall into when I needed someone to catch me. “Free,” I come out with it. Sugar-coating it seems pointless and, quite frankly, unnecessary.
“Free. You feel free on the ice?”
I nod, adjusting so my head is atop my stacked hands.
He waits a beat or two before asking,“Does it keep you in good spirits? Is it a place for you to blow off… steam?”
“Yes. I grew up with an abusive father and a mother who called me fat every chance she got. I held a lot of resentment for those people,” I admit.
“When did he start hitting you?”
I watch a shift in his eyes. They don’t sparkle like they did from the city lights. It’s as if they darkened, and he’s suddenly no longer human.
“Um, sorry. Uh….” His demeanor has thrown me off. I can feel the tension and anger radiating off him.
“When did the abuse start, Emelia?” His repeated question is far more intense this time.
“I was eight when he first slapped me. I was playing with the neighborhood kids, and when the streetlights came on, I didn’t come home right away. This earned me my first-ever punishment.” I gulp, and I swear it echoes around entire room.
“How often did they abuse you? Mentally, emotionally, physically, all of it."
“Daily. If it wasn’t a slap, it was an insult. If it wasn't an insult, it was the silent treatment. Everything always accompanied by ignorance.”
“Ignorance?” he questions, and this time, I turn to lay flat on my back and peer up at the ceiling.
“My brothers are just as bad as my parents. They failed to protect me, acted as if the abuse was no big deal. In fact, they acted like it never happened at all. They were ignorant.” Every bit of my hatred is evident in each strewn together word.
“Cowards. Men and women who abuse their family, they are cowards,” Nico says, and I look at him.
“Does that mean youreallydon’t plan to ever hit me or verbally abuse me?” I question—a small amount of vulnerability peeking through.
“No, even though you are the most difficult, complicated pain in my ass. And it hasn’t even been a week.”
I try to hide my smile. This man sees criminals, perpetrators, enemies, and more every day, and I won the title as his biggest complication. Good. Victory is slowly becoming mine.
