CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The silence is nearly overpowering as Everly and I travel to a house I own on the outskirts of Berlin. The heavy weight that should have lifted once she was out of immediate danger has only grown more oppressive, like being slowly smothered with a wet blanket.
I reach for her hand, but she jerks it away and leans closer to the car door. My hand remains in the air for far longer than I want to acknowledge before grabbing the wheel of the car again.
“Do you want to talk?”
“No.”
“Are you hungry, thirsty… Did he let you sleep?”
“The first day he did.”
“Did he…”
“Other than to hit me, neither he nor the men with him touched me, if that’s what you want to know.” She turns to me as we slow down at the modern gates guarding the centuries-old mansion. I make a quick call and they open.
“Does that make you feel better? To know I’m not damaged goods?”
“Hell yes, it makes me feel better, but only because I know that’s one less thing you have to come back from.” I pull the car forward and the gates close behind us. “Do not make the mistake of trivializing my concern for you.”
“Must be nice,” she says and my knuckles turn white. I have the steering wheel in a death grip. Never before have I been so enraged, never before have I lost so much.
“Must be nice?” I growl, parking the car. “Must be nice?” I turn to face her, my jaw clenching. “There are a multitude of emotions running through me at this moment, but nice is not one of them.”
She shrinks away from me, and I take a deep breath before getting out of the car. I briskly walk to her side and open the door as one of my staff greets us. It is Gustav, a man who has worked for me for years. He doesn’t blink at the sight of blood, or the fact that Everly looks as though she’s gone a couple of rounds in the ring.
“Your rooms are ready. Should you require anything further, we are at your disposal, sir.”
“Thank you, Gustav,” I say and follow him into the house.
For some reason, Everly allows me to touch her, when I expected her to fight me. I take her to my room first, dismissing Gustav with a slight nod. “Shall we get you cleaned up?”
Everly makes a noise, one that I assume is consent when she allows me to guide her inside my bedroom. As soon as we walk inside the bathroom, I release her to fetch my supplies from beneath a marble-topped cabinet.
“You might need stitches for the gash in your forehead.”
She says nothing at first, just looks at me, the room, and then in the mirror. “Okay.”
Running warm water in the sink, I add a bit of soap and toss in a soft cloth to soak in it. “You need to get out of your clothes, love.”
She hesitates, and then unsteady hands go to her tattered sweater’s hem. Gently, I push them away and undress her myself. In a matter of seconds she’s standing in nothing but her bra and panties. The vivid bruises on her pale skin are obscene in the bright lights.
“Good God, sweetheart.” I close my eyes. “What you have endured.”
“The water is about to overflow,” she says and I spin around, opening my eyes.
Turning off the water, I wring out the washcloth. “Come here, please.”
Stiffly, she crosses the small space between us, wincing as I begin to wipe the dried blood from her wounds. When I dip the cloth in rubbing alcohol and make another pass, her eyes fill with tears. But other than the initial hiss of pain, she doesn’t react at all. This is not good. Not good in the least.
“No stitches,” I say, relieved. “But if you did need them, I could do it.”
“Of course you could,” she says.
Ignoring that little dig, I examine the rest of her face. “Your lip is more crusted blood than actual wound, and the scrape above your eye will heal fairly quickly.” Lightly running two fingers over the bruise along her cheek, I say, “This will take a while. I’m sorry.”
She grabs my hand and flings it away. “Stop.”
“I won’t touch you there again. Give me your wrists.”
“No.” Taking a step back, she grabs a towel and wraps it around her.
“You need medical attention, love. Your wrists are practically shredded. Let me help you,” I say as gently as possible. “I promise to be very careful with your wounds.” I can’t promise for it to be pain free, because the skin on her wrists is raw.
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Don’t touch me anywhere again.”
“What did Viktor tell you?”
Her gaze skitters away. “It’s not just what he told me.”
Unease grabs hold of me. “Then what is it?”
“Pictures,” she rasps, fat tears rolling down her cheek. “He made me look at picture after picture of the people you killed. There was a woman—she looked like she was sleeping, except her head was at the wrong angle.”
“Fuck.” I move toward her and she backs up, her hands coming between us, as if to protect herself from me. I freeze, letting my arms hang loosely at my sides.
“He said those people had done nothing wrong. That you killed them for money.”
“Every single one of them deserved to die,” I say softly, lifting my chin. Shame washes over me. I flex my fingers. “However, I was paid to end their lives.”
Her gaze returns to mine. “How could you? Why wouldn’t you just turn them over to the authorities, if they deserved to die?”
“The authorities?” Shaking my head, I let out a harsh laugh. “Love, some of those people were the authorities.” I hold up my hands, palms facing out. “I am what I am, Everly, but I do not murder the innocent.”
She locks in on my hands. “Your tattoos—are those for all the people you…” she swallows, “…killed?”
Wordlessly, I nod. “It lets others know what I’ve done, and to stay away.”
“Except me,” she says. “Except stupid, gullible me who thought your tattoos were hot.”
I open my mouth to speak but she forestalls me with a look.
“Please leave me alone. I need time to process everything and figure out the truth.”
“Fine. If you want the truth, simply ask, and I will give it to you. But in the meantime, I’m here if you need me.”
Her chin tilts up. “I won’t need you.”
“As you wish.” I stride out of the bathroom, intent upon drinking myself into a stupor, but the sound of her crying reaches me before I get to the bedroom door.
I can’t just leave her, not like this. Sinking to the floor, I listen to her sob. Watch and wait, until I hear water running and nothing else. But I don’t leave until I hear her rummaging around the bathroom, and even then I lean against the outer wall of the bedroom and wait. When all is quiet, I slip into the room and find her in bed, asleep. A single lamp is on, whether on purpose or by accident, I do not know.
There is a light knock on the door and I turn to see Gustav standing there. “Can I be of further assistance?” he asks. “I’ve already prepared the blue room for your guest.”
“Thank you.” Striding out of the room, I close the door behind me. “My guest will make use of this room instead.”
“Then I bid you good night.”
“Good night, Gustav,” I say, watching as he hurries down the ornate hallway. It is lined with paintings from the last century. Former owners of the house and their children, I suppose. I’ve never bothered to check.
I start in the opposite direction. Everly isn’t the only one in need of a shower or rest. Or time to sort things out.