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I shake my head, close my eyes, and focus on the warm water raining down on me. My stomach cramps again and I curl into myself. I swear I hear a growl from Enzo but can’t be entirely sure over the spray of water and pain.
“Boss!” someone calls from the other room.
Enzo keeps his eyes on me for a moment longer, before stepping back enough he can look out the door. The voice says something else, but I can’t make out what. Enzo nods.
“She’ll be out in a moment,” he calls back. “Doctor is here.”
“Jesus, that was fast.”
“He comes when he’s called.”
He pulls a towel from the cabinet and steps into the shower to shut the water off. He crouches in front of me and wraps the towel around me. It’s uncomfortably intimate, and I hate that whatever anger and embarrassment I had is slowly fading, and instead turning into vulnerability.
I wish I was home, in my own room, bleeding in my own shower.
With my father.
The man who lied?
The man who sold you to save his own ass?
Yeah, my internal voice has been a real bitch since I got my period. It’s like she has PMS times ten.
She isn’t wrong though…
“Can you walk?” Enzo asks.
I hate how soft his words are. How kind and sweet they are. I hate how badly I want to say, yes, I can, but I’d rather you carry me. I hate that the thought of him holding me makes me feel better because this entire situation sucks, and I have no one. No one.
I don’t answer, I just hold the towel to me and push myself to stand. He keeps a hand on me, and I want to push it off, but I don’t. It’s comforting, and I allow myself to have it. Just now. Just this once. He grabs another towel from the shelf, unfolds it, and dries my hair. I should dry myself off, clean up the mess. There’s probably a puddle of bloody water at my feet, but I can’t find it in me to care.
Turns out I don’t have to because Enzo does it for me. I don’t stop him. I think I’ve felt all the embarrassment I can feel for the day, so I let him do his thing, ignoring how careful and gentle he is. How thorough. How it seems like he cares about me.
When he’s done, I make my way to the bedroom and halt at the scene. There is blood all over the bed. Bloody clothes on the floor and—Christ, that’s my tampon.
“Sit,” Enzo says, all of his kindness gone. Back in place is his dark mask.
So, that’s how it’s going to be, huh? Sweet in private. Ruthless in public. What a way to treat your wife-to-be.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, standing beside the bed. I don’t want to sit and make it worse.
He goes to my drawers, almost like he knows exactly where everything is, pulls out a t-shirt, a pair of sweatpants, and underwear. He places them on the edge of the bed, far away from the bloodstain—which he covers with the bath towel—goes into the bathroom, returning with a pad.
Okay, this is humiliating.
When he starts to open it, I snatch it from his hand. He stares at me like I’ve insulted him.
“I can do it,” I growl.
“What is your issue with accepting help?” he asks, frowning.
“This is weird,” I answer. “It’s private.”
“Your menstrual cycle, something most women on the planet handle each and every month, one of the most feminine things your body does, is weird and private?” he asks, and I don’t miss his point. I get it. I understand it. But I stand by what I said.
“Yes,” I snap.
He nods carefully. “I’ll be talking to the doctor. You have two minutes to get ready.”
