It's been three days.

Three long, never-ending days.

While River supplied me with food and books, he didn't supply me with my journal. So I have my thoughts, but nothing to write them down with.

I sing the new lyrics on repeat so that I can remember. I take baths. I eat the food he left in here for me. I attempt to read. But my mind is elsewhere. Scattered. Wondering what's happening.

Where is Javi? What is he doing?

I don't have to wonder long. On the fourth day, River returns. I want to slap him when he opens the door. But the expression on his face is grim.

"What is it?" I ask.

My stomach flips, and I'm afraid to hear whatever it is he has to say. He gestures for me to follow him. Something that didn't bode well for me before, but this time, I trust his intentions aren't trickery.

I shuffle along beside him to keep up with his long strides.

"How are you with blood?" he asks.

I stop. He turns around and sighs.

"He's been hurt."

His words urge me forward again, and we are walking in tandem now. He leads me to the conservatory. The same bed where Javi first held me captive is where he now rests, motionless. It isn't until I am close that I see him.

And I gasp.

"What happened?"

His clothes are shredded. Covered in blood and gravel.

But it's his face.

His face that is no longer hidden beneath the hood. He looks like he's sleeping. But his face is battered and swollen. He's been beaten.

Repeatedly.

"Motorcycle accident," River tells me.

I turn to him and glare.

"Don't lie to me."

"What does it matter?" River barks. "Can you help him or not?"

I hesitate. Unsure of myself.

"He should be in a hospital."

Now River really does look at me like I'm stupid.

"He can't be in a hospital, Bella. He can't ever go back to a place like that. I had to drug him just to get him back here."

Relief swells inside of me- if only briefly. He's drugged, not knocked out. That is something, I guess.

But the level of his injuries is not something I should be dealing with. He could have a concussion. He could have broken bones. There could be internal bleeding. There could be a whole host of things that I can't fix. But when I look at Javi, I know River is right.

He can't go to a hospital. He won't. Not after his mother. Not after the sanitarium.

"I'll do my best," I whisper.

River nods and gestures to the chair beside the bed. It’s stacked with first aid supplies.

"I don't like to watch," he says. "Be careful of him when he wakes up. He won't be pleasant."

"You're leaving?"

"I'll just be in the kitchen.”

I nod because I guess it's better this way. I don't need him here, questioning me. Watching my every move and second guessing me when I'll be doing enough of that myself.

He moves to go. And then pauses.

"Bella?"

"Yes?"

"Hurt him, and I'll kill you."

* * *

I’m never supposed to see him. He would never allow me to see him.

But right now, he is powerless. And it feels wrong, as I cut away his clothing, knowing he would not like this. But it also feels right.

I am at war with my own thoughts.

Part of me feels guilty for wanting this. For finally feeding the monster inside of me who craves this. The one who has wondered for so long what that dark figure looks like when he doesn’t have a shadow to hide behind. What this killer is hiding beneath the hoods he wears.

My mind has conjured up so many different things. But my imagination never could have prepared me for the reality.

He is massive. Imposing, even in a dead sleep. And he is completely naked now except for the black jocks stretched across his hips.

His body is a mural of muscle and ink. Muscles that have been well built and well-utilized stretch over the canvas of his frame. An array of colorful ink kisses almost every visible inch of his arms and chest. He is beautiful and utterly terrifying.

I knew this all along. But confronting it in such a visually violent way is a horse of a different color.

I finally have the chance to study his face. The long, jagged scar that cuts across his forehead and all the way down to his cheek. My fingers hover over that scar. Wanting to touch. Wanting to heal.

I’ve always known his scars existed, but the extent of them is shocking. There are so many. Angry and red. Deep and thick. Some are small and round, others stretched and jagged. They litter his chest and abdomen, biceps and even his neck. But the most notable is the scar intersecting the crest of his dark eyebrow.

It makes him look like a warrior. And he is. Javi has been through so much. There is no denying it now. He was only a child when he was marked by these horrors.

My father never spoke of Javi’s scars. There was only one time when I caught him watching the news of the events that unfolded that night. He said that it was the perfect storm of circumstances.

Those words have haunted me for so long. They have instilled within me so many questions. Doubts about the things I read in Javi’s file. And perhaps justification for my baffling response to him.

My father knew Javi was dangerous, but he trusted him. He never came to harm while in his presence.

The few times my father did speak of Javi, it was with reverence. My dad was the smartest man I ever knew. And yet, he would say that Javi’s mind was the most incredible thing he’d ever beheld.

At this particular moment, faced with the beast himself, I would have to disagree.

It is his body.

Though scarred and hardened, he is a work of art. One so twisted, Poe could write infinite sonnets about the darkness he carries around with him. A beautiful monster.

I can’t look away from him. And I have never stared at anyone this way. He is bloodied and battered, and utterly gory. And still, he is the most captivating sight I have ever beheld.

I need to get a grip. I need to help him. Fix him. But I don't even know where to begin.

There is gravel lodged deep into the skin of his knees. His elbows. Fresh cuts litter his body. I take note of them all, categorizing them into order of severity. I decide to start with his face first. While he is still asleep.

I know that River is right. When he wakes up, he won't be happy. So, I need to work fast.

The cut on his cheek is the worst by far, and this is the one I start with. Little by little, I cleanse the blood from his face with a wet cloth. Seeing him in a different light.

He is still rigid. So rough around the edges. His beard is wild, and so is his long dark hair, pulled back into an untidy bun. It's an odd thing. I had no idea his hair was so long.

I wonder when it was last cut. And then I realize, he has nobody to cut it for him. But when I smooth it away from his face, I also realize it doesn’t need to be cut. Not really.

He’s a Neanderthal. But it works for him. For his masculine bone structure. His oversized frame. Even with all of his hardness, there is still something soft about him too. At least like this. When he’s asleep. His face is relaxed. At peace.

His lips soft and full, and his nose strong. His skin is softer than I expected. Naturally olive in complexion. His hair and his beard are dark. But even those are soft.

I drink in his features while I can. Pausing my work every so often just to stare at him. To try to make sense of this beast of a man before me. But he is a puzzle I still haven't figured out.

And there isn't time now.

I feel him beginning to stir. When I go to work on the gravel, drawing it from his skin, he wakes completely. There isn't time to prepare myself for his reaction. It is instinctive.

A wounded predator, cornered.

He launches his hand upright and seizes me by the throat. His breathing is harsh. Labored. And his eyes are vulnerable. So vulnerable. The wildest eyes I have ever seen.

"Javi."

My hand covers his, but I don't struggle with him. I don't resist. He needs reassurance right now. And that's what I intend to give him.

"Javi, it's okay. I'm trying to help. You are injured. I'm just trying to help."

His brow furrows when he glances down at his body. His almost naked body. Shame washes over his features, and his grip on me loosens if only a little.

"Leave me," he roars.

He is trying to intimidate me. But he can't. Not this time.

"No."

His eyes meet mine. Fiery. Confused.

Frightened.

"I'm going to tend to your wounds, Javi. Whether you like it or not. So please don't fight me."

His hand trembles around my neck, and then slowly his fingers fall away. He is quiet. Still. And now I am the one shaking as I go back to work, pulling the gravel from his wounds.

He hisses when I hit a tender spot, and I apologize. I am gentle with him. As gentle as I can be. But I know it still hurts. He doesn't like me seeing him this way. He is ashamed. Embarrassed. But he has no reason to be.

He did not cause these scars on his body.

I want to tell him that he shouldn't care what anyone thinks. But it is easier to say than to know how he must feel, living with such scars.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks. "Why are you helping me?"

The words are on the tip of my tongue. The words I should say, to protect myself. I should remain stubborn and indignant. Rebellious to my situation.

I could tell him that River threatened to kill me. That I had no choice. But those aren't the words that leave my lips.

"I can't just leave you here like this, Javi. Someone needs to take care of you too."

"I don't need anyone to take care of me," he growls.

And now he is the one who is stubborn and indignant.

I smile up at him. But it is not mocking. It is just that I never thought I could relate to him. But at this moment, I can.

"Everybody needs some help sometimes, Javi. Even men like you."

“You mean monsters like me.”

I shake my head.

“I don’t think you are nearly as monstrous as you make yourself out to be.”

His eyes move over me, but he does not reply. He does not say another word. Until I am finished. When he asks me for something else. He asks me for some clothes.

It is a softly spoken request. A difficult one for him to make. I don't fight him on it. But when I return from his room, he is not happy with the selection I brought him.

A pair of black sweats and a tee shirt.

"A hoodie," he demands, his polite demeanor gone.

"No."

I cross my arms and hold my ground.

"I have seen you now. River has seen you. There is no reason for you to hide."

He glares at me.

"You would choose to look at me this way?" he sneers.

"Yes," I answer without hesitation. "I would prefer to see your face when I speak to you, Javi."

He does not believe me. He thinks it is a trick. And my heart hurts that he feels this way. I don't want to feel bad for him. I don't want to sympathize with him. But I do.

I know better than anyone what it’s like to be so critical of yourself. To believe the nasty things people say about you. I know what it’s like to feel ugly inside and out.

I know what it’s like to be a monster too.

Javi might not know it, but there is still humanity left inside of him. There is still good. And I don’t know if he deserves it, but I want to fight his demons with him. I want to prove to him once and for all that these scars don’t matter to me. That the things I say and do are not a trick as he would like to believe.

I’m not even certain what his reaction will be. Or how far I am willing to go. But I only know that it feels right when I kneel beside him on the bed and straddle his hips.

He is hard beneath me, already. His breath still and silent when he looks up at me.

I slide the strap of my tank top over my shoulder until it falls, repeating on the other side. The material pools around my waist, revealing my bra.

Javi watches me, growing in size and hardness beneath me.

I unbuckle the clasp, and it falls away. I am naked from the waist up. My breasts are heavy and tender and cold. I reach for his hands, and he lets me guide them to me. He touches me, groaning when I rock against him with my hips. There is still a barrier between us. His jocks and my panties. It feels safer this way.

And also more forbidden.

We are so close, but not quite skin to skin. It doesn’t matter to Javi. He fondles me roughly in his calloused hands. Groping my breasts and then wrenching me forward to kiss him.

His mouth is hungry, and so is mine. I drink him in. I taste him. And I move against him. It becomes frenzied. Both of us forgetting the extent of his injuries until one of his wounds reopens, and he starts to bleed again.

I move to stop. To apologize. Javi clutches my hip and forces me to keep going.

“I like it,” he tells me.

The pain. He likes the pain. It concerns me. It excites me. It makes me want to hurt him and please him all at once. But Javi is in control now. Even from the bottom. He grasps my hips and forces my movements. Using me as the warmth and friction he so badly needs.

I am a prisoner in his arms again. But I am free. Free to my sordid desires.I lean back and press my hand against his cut, applying pressure.

Too much pressure.

I give him the pain he needs. And then I pull away. His eyes darken when he sees the way his blood stains my skin.

He is feral again. Seizing my bloody palm to smear it down between my breasts, marking me with his blood. I whimper, and he comes. For what feels like forever. His body purging itself of the pain inside of him.

He kisses me again. And then releases me.

For a moment, I don’t move. I don’t want to. I want to stay here with him, like this. I don’t understand it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me or why I want him this way. But I can’t control it, and I can no longer deny it.

Javi is tired. His eyes are heavy and relaxed. But the longer we sit here, staring at one another, the more the tension creeps back into his body all over again. So I move from him. Slowly.

I clean his wound again and then reach for his jocks. He grabs my wrist.

“I’ll do it.”

He doesn’t want me to touch him again. Because he’s exhausted and afraid he won’t be able to control himself if I do. It’s there in his eyes. And I had no idea how open his eyes could be until now.

"You should get some rest," I tell him. "I will make something for dinner."

I turn to go, and he stops me again with his hand.

"Bella?"

He looks up at me, anxious.

"Thank you."