Another week had gone by. Another week of lying here, staring at the wall without seeing it. I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t see anything but the horror that replayed over and over again in my head.

When he held me close and I could feel his heart beating against my back, it was better. Never gone, but better. I could believe life did exist somewhere outside that cell, but still, I couldn’t see it.

I knew what I needed, what would slowly banish the nightmare I’d lived from my mind. And the man who could help me was right here, but how could I ask it of him? I’d opened my mouth so many times to let the words out, but every time they got stuck in my throat. How could I ask him to do the things he’d sworn to never do again?

He was a different man than he’d been when this had begun. He was Derek now, not my master. He was the man who stroked my arm and whispered soothing words in my ear when I couldn’t hold back my tears. He was the man who held me close and demanded nothing of me. He was the man I loved with every piece of my broken heart, but I needed my master back. I needed my master to fore the pieces back together. Maybe that made me weak. Or perhaps it made me stronger than most to know what I needed to be whole again.

But I wasn’t strong enough. I didn’t open my mouth. I didn’t ask him for what I desperately needed. I stared at the wall and watched in my mind’s eye as the devil tore the flesh from my body with his whip.

Another day passed, and then another. I took the pills Derek gave me. I ate when he brought me food. I let him help me into the shower and I laid in the bed that was like a silken cloud in comparison to the cold, stone floor where I’d thought, no, I’d prayed, not so long ago I would die.

Maybe I was getting better on my own. I wasn’t grateful the fates had sent Derek to rescue me, but the bitter resentment I’d felt in the first days had deflated. It wasn’t an overwhelming presence now. It was small, an echo of regret that floated in the back of my consciousness. Not gone, but better. I was getting better.

Derek was still asleep. I could hear the even inhale and exhale of his breathing and felt the steady beat of his heart against my back. I slipped from beneath his arm as quietly as I could and stood up. My ribs still screamed in protest, but I could get up on my own again. Better—I was getting better.

When his breathing remained even, I tiptoed into the bathroom and closed the door quietly behind me. I would shower, without his insistence and without his help, because I was getting better.

I let the unbuttoned shirt I wore slip off my shoulders and turned on the faucet. Before I could step in though, I caught sight of my reflection in a broken shard of mirror that hadn’t smashed to the floor with the rest of its pieces. It was a small shard, smaller than half the size of my hand, but the unfamiliar person it reflected back at me made me curious. It was a morbid curiosity. Nothing I saw there would make me feel better, but I needed to look.

I pried the shard loose, forgetting about its sharp edges until a thin rivulet of blood dripped down the glass. It wasn’t a sight that shocked me anymore. I’d seen more of my blood drip from my body than any person should ever see in a lifetime. A few more drops made little difference, and the sharp sting from the source was little more than a tickle. I wiped the blood away with a cloth and held up the shard in front of my face.

Only, it wasn’t my face. Not the one I remembered, at least. Most of the bruising had faded to hideous shades of green and yellow, like a poorly applied camouflage mask. My cheek though—the one that had been ground against the stone floor relentlessly—resembled something from a horror film. Scabbed and crusted, with shiny, white edges where the skin had begun to heal. The green eyes that stared back at me weren’t my own. They were dull, almost lifeless, despite the shimmer of fresh tears welling there.

I forced myself to move on, lowering the glass an inch at a time. Faded bruises. They crept out from beneath the bandages, around my ribs and spread out like ugly, obscure tattoos down my abdomen and up over my breasts.

But I couldn’t see what I wanted to see most—what I needed to see. I’d spent so many hours beneath the cut of my tormentor’s whips and canes that I already knew the damage to my back would be irreparable. It would stay with me forever, but I didn’t even know what it looked like. How strange was it that I didn’t even know what a part of my body looked like?—how it would forever look.

The need to know burned bright and I positioned myself in front of the shattered edges of the mirror that still clung to the wall. I lifted the shard in my hand behind me; though my hand shook so hard I nearly dropped the glass. Eventually, by turning this way and that, I was able to catch a glimpse of the grotesque canvas that was now mine. Mutilated flesh scabbed and puckered. God, I was hideous. He’d made me hideous.

I dropped the glass and my knees gave out, though I was able to get my hands beneath me before my body clattered and broke like the glass. I sat on the floor, gulping air and trying to stop the scream that rose up in my chest. I couldn’t let it out. I was getting better. Screaming would be worse, not better.

The blood from my finger dripped onto the marble tile, and I forced my attention onto that. It was just a tiny cut. It would heal. Look, the drips were already starting to slow. One, and then another…and then another. It didn’t escape my attention that if Derek walked into the room at that moment, it would look like I’d clearly lost my mind. Sitting on the floor, naked, and watching my blood pool on the perfectly level surface. Maybe I had lost my mind—in my first prison, or somewhere along the road of our escape, or in the dark, dank dungeon.

No, I couldn’t accept that. I was getting better.

With renewed determination, I picked up my shirt and pushed myself up off the floor. And my legs didn’t buckle when I walked toward the door. I’d lost whatever urge had compelled me to the shower, and it seemed like a wasted effort to go back to turn off the faucet. I put my shirt on though and even did up the buttons. The blood smears left by my finger seemed inconsequential. I opened the door, intending to slip back into bed before Derek woke up, but I froze before I could take a step out into the room.

He was awake, and he wasn’t alone. My heart raced, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs.

“Scar, it’s OK,” he said as he crossed the room in four, long strides. “Breathe. It’s just Dr Fuentes. He’s come by to make sure you’re healing well.”

I couldn’t move. I recognized the man now, but I didn’t want him here. I didn’t want him to touch me. This wasn’t better. This did not feel better. What difference did it make if I healed? My body would forever be a horrid mess. Did it matter if my ribs didn’t heal right? Maybe he wanted to check the places where I had stitches. No, I did not want him to do that.

The doctor approached and I wanted to dart into the bathroom and lock the door, but aside from the way my whole body had begun to tremble, I couldn’t move. There was no sense in running. It never helped. It never stopped what was going to come next.

The man stopped two feet away and he stood there looking at me. I dropped my gaze but I watched him surreptitiously through my lashes. He exchanged glances with Derek, but I couldn’t see enough to know what the look conveyed.

“Why don’t you have a seat on the bed, ángel, while I have a word with your master,” the doctor said kindly.

I liked his voice. I liked, even more, the opportunity to put as much distance between me and the kind voice as possible, so I locked my wobbly knees and headed straight for the bed. My ribs had healed enough that though it hurt to sit down, I could manage it with minimal grimacing.

“She calls me Derek, Vicente. Not master,” I heard him say tersely.

“Is that so?” the doctor replied with amusement in his tone and a chuckle.

I caught Derek’s cold glare, and the doctor’s laughter quickly died away. Then I could hear only the murmur of their voices as they spoke quietly—no doubt they were talking about me. I sat perfectly still, trying to make out bits and pieces of the conversation. Though I was tempted to wriggle closer, I didn’t. I could decipher little more than the occasional word until the doctor’s voice rose to an agitated whisper.

“Look at the poor girl—she’s a frightened shell. Unless you want her to remain that way, she needs more help than you can give her.”

What was he suggesting? That I needed more than Derek to get better? That he wanted to take me away?

“No!” I cried, backing up to the other side of the bed. He couldn’t take me away. Not again. Please god, not again.

“What’s wrong, Pet?” Derek crooned as he made it behind me before I toppled off the edge of the bed.

It was something I’d noticed ever since we’d escaped that night in my first prison. Derek kept reverting back to that name. I liked it. I didn’t know why, but it was comforting and I allowed myself to relax my body back into his arms.

“I don’t want to go with him. Please don’t make me go.”

“I won’t. I promise,” he soothed. “Dr Fuentes is only here to make sure you’re healing physically. Isn’t that right?” His eyes shot up to the doctor’s.

“Yes, that’s right,” he said to me with a sigh.

Then he came closer again, and I pressed harder against Derek’s arms as if I could disappear inside them. I didn’t disappear, and he kept coming, but he stopped a foot away this time and crouched down in front of me.

“Of course I won’t take you anywhere you don’t want to go, ángel. But do you know why I took this job—working for Derek and the man who employed him?”

I shook my head.

“Because if I didn’t, there would be girls—girls like you—who would never get the medical attention they needed. Do you understand?”

Yes, I did understand what he was saying. He didn’t agree with what happened to them—to me—but this was the only way he could help them. The only way he could help me. He wanted to help me—that’s what he was saying. That was good, but still, I didn’t want to go anywhere with him.

I nodded but kept myself as close to Derek as I could.

He eyed me for another minute. The silence was tense as if both of them were waiting for me to say or do something. I didn’t move a muscle. I barely breathed.

“All right,” the doctor said with another deflated sigh. “Will you let me have a look at your wounds, ángel?”

I didn’t want him looking at me, or touching me. I didn’t want to move from the safe cocoon of Derek’s arms. Did I have to do this? I needed my body to heal, didn’t I? Did I even have any say in the matter? It was too much. Just too damn much.

Do it, a voice whispered from somewhere in my head. It was the place that was strong. The place that knew what I needed to heal. And it wasn’t telling me to send the doctor away or to lock myself in the bathroom. That wasn’t what I needed.

“Tell me what do to,” I whispered. Maybe that made me weak, but I didn’t think so. I was making the choice to hand it over, to trust him. It wasn’t being taken from me this time. My choice.

He looked down at me and brushed the hair back from my forehead. Then his eyes closed and he nodded. Did he understand? Could he see what I really wanted to ask of him?

“Stand up and face the bed, Pet,” he said then, though partly a moot point since he was holding me tighter in his arms and helping me to my feet.

He positioned himself in front of me and kept his eyes on mine as he unbuttoned my shirt. I shivered when he slipped it from my shoulders, but I didn’t try to stop him. Instead of letting it drop to the floor though, he held it around me, part way down my back.

I felt the doctor’s hands on me then, on the flesh, Derek had exposed. He pressed gently in various places until he’d reached where my shirt still covered me. Only then did Derek lower it further, revealing the wide bandage wrapped around my ribs.

More light touches until the bandage fell away. Goosebumps prickled my flesh, only in part from the room’s cooler air on my warm skin, but I remained still and kept my eyes locked on Derek’s. He never looked away, not once, as if he knew I needed him to keep me anchored like this.

Of course, he knew. He’d always known me, probably better than I knew myself. So, how did he not know until now what it was I needed? Or had he known? Had he resisted this?—or not wanted it at all?

The doctor pressed on my ribs and I drew in a sharp breath as the pain made my eyes water. It hurt, but at least it didn’t hurt as much as it had before.

Then my shirt slipped lower and I couldn’t hold back the tear that escaped. I tried to focus on Derek instead, wondering how he could know when the doctor was finished with one area since he eyes never left mine.

Soft touches on my backside and my thighs, and then he was just about finished. Derek refastened my shirt before he leaned in closer.

“Turn around so Dr. Fuentes can look at your cheek.”

I did as he told me, but despite the kindly expression on the doctor’s face, I closed my eyes and kept them closed until he was. A few, feather-light touches, and then he was taking a step back. I sighed my relief. It was done.

“Lie down on your back, Pet,” Derek said then in a strained voice.

I whipped my head around to look at him, but no words came out when I tried to object. He was holding out his hand and I took it, and I didn’t resist when he helped me to do what he’d said.

He leaned over me when I was flat on my back, and his frame blocked out my view of everything else. All I could see was Derek, and I tried to tune out all but the too handsome face in front of me. I tried not to think about the hands on me down there or the men who had used me. None of that mattered. All that mattered was the man leaning over me.

Then it was over. It had to be—there wasn’t any more of me to examine.

Derek pulled the blanket up over my body to my chin and then pressed a gentle kiss to my lips. “Good girl,” he whispered before he stood tall and turned toward the doctor.

“There is no sign of infection and I’m satisfied her ribs are healing well. I see no reason she won’t make a full recovery…physically,” he added the last sharply.

“That’s enough, Vicente. You’ve made your thoughts known. Do not forget who you’re speaking to,” Derek warned in a calm, cold tone I knew all too well.

It didn’t frighten me now—maybe in part because it wasn’t directed at me. Either way, it was reassuring to know he was strong in ways I wasn’t, and even more comforting to recognize that tone meant there was no way in hell the doctor would be taking me away with him.

“Very well. My apologies, my friend,” the doctor said, though the insincerity in his voice was loud and clear.

Hopefully, Derek would let it slide. As much as I wanted him to leave, I did not want the doctor to suffer because of me.

Derek nodded, and I released the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

“Am I too presumptuous to assume money is no object when it comes to her recovery?”

“No, you would be correct.”

Money? I hadn’t even considered that. Money wasn’t something I’d thought about in months. But how much was it costing Derek for a doctor to make private house calls?

The doctor rummaged through a briefcase I hadn’t noticed before, and withdrew a tube—one that looked similar to the soothing cream Derek had applied to the wounds Marcos had inflicted. He handed the tube to Derek.

“It’s expensive, but after our last…meeting, I went searching for something that would be helpful. It’s recently been approved for wound care, and I think in this case it will be well worth its price. Applied three times a day, it should prevent most scarring, even in deep wounds.”

My gaze shot to Derek’s hand and the inconspicuous looking tube in it. No scars?—or at least far fewer. No proof of my body of all the vile things that had been done to it? It seemed like a precious gift, so much that I could feel a tiny tug at the corners of my lips, trying to shape them into a small smile.

But did it change anything? Would Derek ever be able to look at me and not see what I’d looked like when he’d stormed into my cell? Would I? If the scars were gone, could I forget what they’d done, or how the devil had made my body respond? No. I would never forget. Those endless days had been burned into my memory like a brand from the hottest iron.

I closed my eyes, having lost interest in the tube. I heard the rattle of pill bottles—probably more painkillers—and then footsteps retreated toward the door. They conversed in low tones, but I had no interest in eavesdropping this time.

By the time Derek returned, I’d already begun to drift off. I debated continuing down into oblivion, but the tension that radiated from him kept me teetering on the edge, and eventually, drew me back u to the surface. When I opened my eyes, he was standing next to the bed, looking down at me. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Explain it to me, Scar,” he said. His voice was gentle, but it brooked no refusal.

I had no doubt what he was referring to, but how could I explain it to him? Maybe simple was best. “I need it to be my choice. I need to experience it, and know I put myself here this time.”

He nodded, and I expected him to say something, either in agreement or in protest, but he didn’t. Not one word. He strode out of the room and into the ensuite and shut the door behind him. I debated following him, but if he’d wanted me there, he would have brought me with him. He didn’t want me there.

He didn’t want me. If he understood what I was asking, then it was the only explanation that made sense. When he’d kidnapped me, he had wanted me. He’d wanted to control me. He’d wanted me to submit to his will, and his alone. But now, when I was choosing to offer myself up to him, he walked away and locked himself in the bathroom. I was used goods. I wouldn’t want me either.

I curled up as tight as my ribs would allow and closed my eyes. Tears leaked out the corners, but before they’d saturated the pillow, the bathroom door swung open. He was standing in the doorway, a towel slung low around his hips and his flesh still damp from the shower. He was beautiful, perfectly sculpted. Awareness crept through my veins—a feeling I hadn’t experienced in what seemed like a very long time. I wanted to block it out. The deep, dark shame inside me said I had no right to be looking at him this way, but I couldn’t help it.

By the time my gaze had made its way up to his eyes, I was warmer. The heavy blanket was stifling. But he was looking back at me, and the reflection I’d glimpsed of myself earlier in the broken shard of glass flashed through my mind. That’s what he was seeing. That’s what I looked like now. The heat fled and I tucked the blanket more tightly around my body.

“Dr Fuentes left this for you,” he said, picking up the tube he’d left on the nightstand. “You’re going to roll over for me, and while I put it on you, you’re going to tell me exactly what’s going through your head.” He tone was still gentle, and it still brooked no refusal.

I struggled from my side and onto my stomach while he stood motionless. He wasn’t going to help me. He wasn’t going to move until I’d complied. It was the closest I had felt to peace since he let me kneel between his thighs and he fed me his fast food burger from his fingers. Fucked up, maybe, but it was the least fucked up I’d felt since that day.

My ribs protested, but I succeeded, and then waited patiently as he picked up the tube, rolled down the blanket to expose my back, and sat down on the bed next to me. “Talk, Pet,” he said as he squeezed some of the thick, opaque gel onto his fingers and rubbed it gently across a wound just below my neck.

“I know it probably sounds crazy…”

“No,” he interrupted. “Don’t tell me what you think is going on in my head. I want to know what’s going on in yours.”

“It’s…what happened, is in my head all the time. I feel helpless.”

His fingers faltered but then moved smoothly again across my mutilated flesh.

“I learned a lot about myself with you…before. I learned that I didn’t need to be in control, that as long as I trusted you, I didn’t need that. It felt as easy as breathing to offer that up. But…but it was never my choice. I need it to be my choice.”

“I want to help, but fuck Scar, do you have any idea what you’re asking? Before…it was never an act. I feel guilty as fuck for what I did to you, but…I wanted to do those things—and that makes the guilt about a thousand times worse. Now though, after all, I did to you after all those sons of bitches did to you…how can I do what you’re asking?”

At least it did seem like he understood what it was I wanted. Except, I didn’t just want it—I needed it. And by Derek’s own admission, it hadn’t been an act on his part. It came naturally to him. I was only asking him to be…him. Thinking about it that way made it easier to push harder.

“I need this. And you’re the only man I want to do this. I don’t want to even think about trying to find some professional dominant…”

“Over my dead body,” he said, his voice calm and cool—and a little scary this time.

But it was precisely the response I’d been hoping for. It meant that some part of him still wanted me and had no intention of sharing me with anyone. I held my breath, waiting. I could think of no other way to sway him, so I could only hope what I’d said was enough.

“All right,” he breathed, and I exhaled with him. “But not here. I’m taking you home, Scar.”

Home? I didn’t have a home anymore. Derek was my home. “I don’t…”

“My home.”

“I didn’t know you had a home,” I said stupidly. Of course, he had a home somewhere. He wasn’t a desert nomad.

“That’s because no one but me has ever been there.”

I didn’t want to get my hopes up. I didn’t want to consider what it meant that he wanted to take me to his home. I didn’t want to hope that maybe, even after I was healed, he would still want me. But it was difficult not to when he said things like that. He was taking me somewhere no other person—no other woman—had ever been. That had to mean something, didn’t it? But…

“Is it safe? I mean, don’t we need to stay hidden?”

“I’ve been in touch with various contacts since we got here. The story is you escaped when Marcos’ car was attacked, but recaptured by a rival group. I’ve been hunting you down and looking for signs that Marcos is still alive. As a loyal follower, I can’t accept that he’s dead, and I’m keeping you in tow to hand over to him when I find him.”

Oh. I’d had no idea he’d been busy setting up a story that would mean we no longer had to run and hide. I didn’t care in the least that it cast me as the naughty runaway slave. It was perfect because it meant no one would come after me since I was already in Derek’s possession. And most importantly, it means no one was coming after Derek. He was safe.

He was taking me to his home, and there he would help me heal. I allowed the ripple of hope that ran through me to have its moment. I didn’t even try to squelch it. I closed my eyes and focused on the feel of his strong hands as they smoothed miracle-cream down my back.

“Thank you,” I whispered as the tiredness I’d pushed back earlier closed in on me again.

“Save your thanks, Pet. You might not be feeling so appreciative soon,” he whispered back, his voice as raw as it had been that first day I’d woken up in the hotel room.

I was too tired to respond, so I brought his words down with me, trying to mull them over as I drifted off to sleep. Was he right? No, he couldn’t be, I decided as I lingered somewhere between awake and asleep.

My tormentor’s whip cracked in the air all around me, echoing off the stone walls as the nightmare pulled me in. Always helpless. Powerless. Awake or asleep, nothing was my choice.

But it would be soon.