9
After our intense shower, Charlie rubs me dry with a huge towel, patting my hair to a damp state before brushing it out with a comb.
He’s very delicate, starting from the bottom to work his way up. I watch his towering, vague reflection in the frosted window, engrossed by his ominous beauty. He’s stark naked with his thick cock hanging low, and his powerful body is dripping in water. It’s hard to look at him, but it’s also hard not to. The toned muscles in his ass tighten as he moves about attending to me, buttering me up in cocoa moisturizer and some seriously potent ointment. He spreads it on the low of my back where I had the skin graft. I ask what it’s for. He says I need to use it for up to four months after the operation, to help the healing process. It burns initially but then it’s tingly and cool on my skin.
When he’s done, he wraps me up in a fluffy white dressing gown and rolls out the collar, so it doesn’t cover my face.
“Feel better now that you’ve had a shower, hmm?” he asks. His blue eyes don’t leave mine for a second, waiting on my answer.
I nod, feeling more than better. I nearly feel like my old-self. The weight of the past few weeks is adrift while a sense of peace lingers in me. I don’t know if it’s because I’m super tired or nostalgic by what I said to him, thanking him for always being there for me, but I like the way I’m feeling.
“Does this mean you’re going to have sex with me now?”
“Steady on,” he laughs, whipping a towel off the heated wrack to tie around his muscular waist. “How about we get some food in you first, yeah? As per our little deal?”
“Oh! Sure.” I shrug, surprised and confused. His cock is bulging at the seams, and he just spent ages getting me ready. Why would he do that if he doesn’t want to fuck? “If that’s what you want.” I walk past him to brush my teeth at the vanity sinks as he exits the bathroom, I assume to dress.
I rattle around searching for a spare toothbrush but there’s only one sitting on an electric stand, so I use it. After, I wander into the closet for some clothes but find, through the archway, Charlie is sitting half naked on the edge of the bed. He’s wearing a pair of gray joggers, feet crossed at the ankles. Our eyes align, and he smiles at me. He pats the space next to him. “Come sit down, baby.”
He sounds ominous. Maybe he does want to have sex with me?
Tightening my dressing gown belt, I patter out to him. I sit at his side, sinking into the mattress.
“Do you remember Dr. Shyam?” he asks, while the blueness in his eyes flitters back and forth between mine.
I don’t answer, just look at him. How could I forget the doctor? He saved my life.
“He’s here”—Charlie nods in the direction of the door—“I’d like him to check you over, if that’s okay?”
“But, you took my blood.”
“I know.” He reaches for a damp lock of my hair and swirls it around his finger, tickling my scalp. “Your results came back good. You’re not carrying any diseases.”
My eyes widen. That was quick.
“Told you everything would be all right, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” I whisper, still stunned. “I guess you did.”
Hunching at the neck, he kisses my cheek and nuzzles his nose there. My stomach whirls. I can’t tell what mood is hanging over him. One minute I think he wants to fuck, and the next...
“You are borderline anemic,” he professes, sitting back to stare at me. “Might be why you’re suffering with headaches. So I’d just like Shyam to check your blood pressure, weight, and give you a physical examination. Nothing extreme.”
“He doesn’t need to take any more blood though, right?”
“No, he doesn’t. He won’t ask you any questions, either. You just need to sit here. Within ten minutes, he’ll be done, okay?”
I shrug, itching a spot on my neck. If I don’t have to talk to him or give any blood, I guess I could let him check me over.
“You’re staying, aren’t you, Charlie?”
“Course I am.” He pushes to his feet, pinching my chin as he does, and crosses the bedroom to open the door.
I tuck into myself, pulling up the collar of my dressing gown. My attention narrows when the white coat walks in. He strolls up to me without making eye contact, peeling open a large medical bag on the bedside cabinet. His skin is warm brown, matching his wide eyes, and he smells like medical gauze; the horrid, clinical stench that loiters in hospitals. I study every instrument he divulges from the medical bag and lays out, to make sure he doesn’t spring a syringe on me.
“Blood pressure first. Don’t touch her,” Charlie warns as he leans over to roll up my sleeve, bundling it around my shoulder. He stretches out my arm for the doctor, with his large hands making my limb look impossibly small and thin.
Shyam’s professional eyes scan the aging-green puncture marks on my inner elbow and wrist before he straps up my bicep in a tight pressure reader. It pinches my skin when it expands, causing the discomfort of swelling to resonate all the way down to my fingers. It bleeps when it’s done.
“Now her heartbeat,” Charlie says.
It’s all very technical. Charlie wasn’t joking when he said I didn’t have to talk. The doctor places the stethoscope on my chest without touching me, listening for the low, even ba-boom of my heart. Then he lays out a squishy gray mat on the floor. I have to stand on it until another beep goes off.
Finally, Dr. Shyam scribbles notes on a tiny pad and passes it to Charlie, packs up his medical bag, and leaves the room. Charlie disappears into the closet with the notepad, then I hear buttons bleep, bleep, bleep, several times. He emerges with something hanging on his finger, causing me to squint to see what it is.
My bracelet!
I snatch it without asking, gawking like an idiot. “I wondered what happened to this! I-I thought I lost it!”
“No, you didn’t lose it,” he says, lowering onto the bed at my side. “As I mentioned before, you were in a medically induced coma, and the doctor did regular brain scans to check you were all right, so I took it for safe keeping.”
I smile to myself, gazing in amazement at the bracelet. The silver band is tough, just as I remember, with a single row of sparkly crystals. I slip it over my right hand instead of my left, so that every time I look at it I won’t see Maksim’s bite mark. I click the clasp shut, feeling the metal is warm on my skin from where Charlie was holding it.
“Glad you got it back, yeah?”
“Sure I am.” I beam up at him, melting from within. He has no idea what I went through to keep this. “Thanks, Charlie.”
“Wow, three thank yous in one day?” he teases, crossing his arms. “I’m on a roll.”
He is on a roll. I get an urge to kiss him, a heavy tingly feeling right in the pit of my belly, so I do. I press into the bed to gain height, pecking his mouth with a gentle kiss. His skin is still a little damp, cool on my lips. He blinks at me, stupefied, but he doesn’t look happy. He looks...guilty.
“What is it?”
“The doctor had some questions,” he says, scratching his mouth, “and since I knew you wouldn’t talk to him...”
“About my examination?”
His eyebrows arch. “Do you want to know the results?”
I nod, so he openly tells me that I’m very underweight and malnourished. “But it’s nothing a healthy diet can’t fix, and I’m gonna make sure of it, all right?”
“Okay...so, what questions?”
He tips his head, giving me a tender, apologetic look. “He wants to know how you feel since you came off the heroin, and I do, too.”
My entire body goes rigid, mood dropping to an all-time low.
Charlie reaches over to caress a tickly spot on the inside of my wrist, as if to distract me. “Can you tell me how you feel, hmm? Do you have any stomach cramps or feel sick, or do you crave anything?”
“I’m fine.” I pull away to stop him from distracting me with his touch, shrinking into my shoulders. “I-I don’t want to talk about that.”
“Why not?” He tries to take my hand, but I yank back and stuff it in the dressing gown pockets. “Hey, Blaire, don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pull away like that,” he warns, his face hardening like stone. “I’m asking you a question. I expect you to answer me, not put distance between us.”
I narrow my eyes. “I pulled away because you always distract me by touching me. And I just said I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Why?” He shrugs. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. My brother Andres is a recovering heroin addict.”
My eyes widen to the size of saucers.
“Yeah.” Charlie nods a couple of times. “He can’t handle the stuff we do. He turns to drugs for relief.”
My mouth opens to a huge O. “I didn’t willingly take drugs, you know?”
“I’m not saying you did.”
“Then what are you saying, Charlie? Because it sounds like you’re saying I’m weak”—I jab a finger at his hairy chest—“and if you insult me again, you can be dead certain I won’t talk to you.”
“Baby, I’m not insulting you. I’m not saying you’re weak. What I’m trying to say is...” He searches my face in a moment of silence, before confessing, “Even I struggle, Blaire.”
I don’t believe him. I huff in disagreement, shaking my head.
“I’m not tricking you,” he says. “Sometimes, I have dark moments and need mental space away from certain...innocent people. Everyone copes in their own way. Andres turns to drugs—that’s why I’m telling you this. I know how dark it can get. When my sister-in-law, Luna, told me what was going on, I locked my brother in a room so he couldn’t escape for a fix. He was ill for two weeks. He was skittish and paranoid, constantly vomiting. They say everyone withdrawing from heroin reacts the same way.”
“Well, I just said I’m fine.” I kick my feet up to shift back on the bed, perching up against the headboard. I pull up my knees to my chest and cover my entire body in the dressing gown, hiding my nakedness.
“Look at me,” Charlie demands, but I ignore him, eyes trained on a spot on the bed. “I mean it. I said look at me.”
“No,” I hiss through clenched teeth, and his hand clamps down on my jaw. “Ugh!” I practically growl, pouncing forward to shove him. “What do you want from me, Charlie?”
“I want to know how you feel. I want to know what it was like coming off—”
“It was hell coming off that stuff!” I blow up on him, shoving him harder. “I was so sick I couldn’t stop puking! So tired yet I couldn’t sleep! I begged for more drugs, anything to relieve the pain! I would have done anything to relieve the pain!” I want to stop shouting but I can’t. I’m crazy with madness. “I felt abandoned by you, Charlie, even though it wasn’t your fault! I felt so alone! I was so fucking alone!” I scream hard enough to make my eyes bulge, face burning red with shame. “Are you happy now? Did you hear all you wanted to hear?”
“Blaire...” my name rolls of his tongue with sympathy.
“No, Charlie.” I push him away and cross my legs to sit there in the middle of the bed, staring at my hands in my lap. “What the hell do you want from me, a dossier on how I recovered?”
“Do you still crave it?”
My mouth drops open as my blazing eyes dart up to his. I’m on the verge of punching him in the face for asking such an offensive question.
“What I mean to say is,” he rubs his forehead, frowning and blinking with reflection, “if you do still crave it, the doctor can give you something to relieve the symptoms.”
I realize that was his objective in asking about the heroin. It’s to make sure I’m not still suffering from craving it.
Why couldn’t he just get to the point?
“I’m not mocking you, Blaire.” He shifts closer to me, gently touching my hand. “I’m letting you know that, the drugs are nothing to be ashamed of, and if you still crave it—”
“I. Told. You,” I annunciate each word, “I. Am. Fine.”
“Will you give me a damn break?!” he shouts, making me flinch. “I’m trying here too, you know? I’m trying to make sure you’re all right, mentally and physically. I’m trying to find your brother and handle my own affairs at the same time—don’t look at me like that, ay Dios mío! Will you drop this stinking attitude until we’re a little more in control of our own lives?”
“I will stop when you stop questioning me,” I speak through clenched teeth, determined not to give in. “I don’t want to take that crap ever again, Charlie. And I don’t want to talk about it. It’s nasty. I hate the thought of you seeing me like that, don’t you get it?”
“Why do you think the things you’ve done will make me see you differently, hmm?”
I roll my eyes, snorting, “You’re a guy.”
His eyebrows shoot up.
“I know you like me because you think I’m innocent or whatever—you’ve basically said it plenty of times—so what happens when you know that’s not real? What happens when you realize I’m just another murderer? And now I’m an ex-heroin...whatever it’s called.”
“You are not an ex-heroin addict.” He points in my face. “I don’t see you like that. And you are innocent in some ways, regardless of what you assume.”
“That opinion,” I flick his hand away, “is why I don’t want to talk to you about the horrid things that have happened to me or what I’ve done.” I glance away for a second to find the right words to tell him, “I’m not innocent, no matter how much you want me to be.”
“I know I make you feel innocent,” he says, his voice coming out softer, more hypnotic. “The things I make you feel confuse you. You can’t lie to me. I’ve seen it in your eyes.” He pauses to gaze for too long, making me burn under his scrutiny. “When I first kissed you, I’ll never forget the way you looked at me in his kitchen, like you wanted to ask why your stomach was fluttering or maybe your heart was beating a little faster.”
Sharp hairs sprint down my arms, and I can’t seem to look away from him, trapped under his confessions.
“When I first made you cum,” his eyes dazzle like blue diamonds, “the expression of liberty on your face was enough to tell me you’d never felt affection or euphoria before.”
I hate that he saw it in me back then when I was masterful at deception. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned since meeting Charlie, it’s that one cannot hide the power of desire.
“You’re innocent to emotions,” he says, “and that makes you innocent.”
“What about the rest of me?”
“I know you’re dark.” His eyebrows draw in, like he’s emotionally coming to terms with it or something. “But that’s okay. I fancy that about you—you know I do.”
“Why though?” I ask for the hundredth time, rubbing my face to sooth the headache coming on fast. It’s always baffled me why he fancies me. I’m no one special.
“Why does there have to be a reason?”
“Because,” I say, losing my voice for a moment. “I need reason, Charlie. There is reason for everything.”
“Well, I initially fancied you because you were young and pretty, off-limits, and haunting. I could feel your energy in the room like it was a living thing. Still can.” He strokes the space between us like he can feel my soul. It’s creepy. “And the more I got to know you, I guess I just liked who you really are. You’re different. I told you that before.”
“No one likes who I really am.” I can’t help sounding sarcastic. “I’m moody, arrogant, and I know I annoy you.”
“You do not annoy me.” He chuckles, and a gorgeous smile reaches the mischievous sparkle in his eyes. “You press my buttons sometimes, but I love how you challenge me.”
“I don’t understand that, either.” I sigh, so baffled. “You could have any woman you want, and you know it—a woman who would bow to your every request.”
“I’ve had every woman I want,” he says. “It got boring very quickly. I hungered for a challenge, and when I met you”—his hand lifts to my face, tracing the outline of my mouth—“you delivered a challenge and more.”
“I’m not beautiful like your ex, Celine, or the woman at Maksim’s house you were drooling over.” I feel insignificant compared to everything in the world when I tell him that, a confession from the soul.
“Celine was beautiful, yeah.” He smirks at me and playfully tugs on a length of my hair. “You are very, very pretty, charismatic, dangerous, magical. You are many things, Blaire. You’ve taught me a lot, in fact. I don’t look at women the same anymore, not since I first kissed you.”
I’ve taught him a lot? I nearly laugh with sarcasm. The only thing I must’ve taught him is patience.
“Since I first kissed you,” he says, curling my hair around his finger, “I’ve learned, with women, it’s not just about being pretty or beautiful. Every woman has some form of beauty in them, like my housekeeper, for example.”
“That old woman?” I say, revolted and confused beyond words.
“Yeah.” His eyes crinkle with amusement. “You might see her as an old woman, but I see life in her eyes, wisdom, and culture. There’s something enchanting in every woman. You just have to look hard enough to find it.”
There’s something mysterious in his words, how he sees females. It interests me.
“Why did you just tell me all that?” I ask in a whisper. “You could have just brushed me off, you know?”
“Firstly,” he says, staring right at me, “I would never just brush you off. And as for why I just told you all that,” he mimics my husky accent to say all that, “I remember you questioning me over why I wanted you before, kinda like how you did just now.” He tickles his own nose with my lock of hair, inhaling the fragrance. “I won’t have you wondering all the time, Blaire. I’ll never hide my emotions from you. I’ll always be honest about how I feel because, for this to work, we must be open and candid with each other. We must trust each other. And”—he smiles, searching the gulf in my eyes—“above all that, I think you need to know that there’s only you, so you feel safe and secure with me. I want that more than anything in the world.”
“I do feel like that with you, Charlie.”
“Good,” he whispers, still playing with the piece of my hair. “So, you gonna be honest in telling me how you feel now, off the heroin, I mean?”
“I feel okay,” I say, glancing down at my fingers to pick a fray on the dressing gown. “The thought of eating makes me want to puke, and the headaches are uncomfortable, but apart from that, I really am fine. I don’t want to take drugs, I promise.”
“All right,” he says softly.
My head snaps up, astonished. “You believe me?”
“Course I do,” he insists. “I asked if you still crave the heroin because I trusted you’d tell me the truth. You say you don’t, and I believe you.”
We look at each other, prisoners to our own darkness. I hope he does believe me. I am many things but a liar isn’t one of them.
Well, I lied to Maksim twice, but does that count?
I frown to myself, about to ask Charlie if it counts, but someone knocks on the bedroom door. I jump in my skin, whipping my head around in that direction. “Who is that?”
“Relax.” Charlie gets up and saunters across the room. “Tis’ probably just Nic or the housekeeper. I texted her to make you some soup.”
Soup, now? I can’t eat after that conversation. I still have questions.
Charlie pulls open the door, grabs a tray of food from the frail housekeeper, and kicks the door shut. He motions with his thumb for me to sit up properly, so I shimmy back and rest against the headboard.
“Take one of these”—Charlie gestures with the tray, and I notice a pill pot—“they’re anti-nausea pills. I figured you were feeling off when you couldn’t each your lunch, so I told Shyam to fill a prescription.”
“Will they work?” I ask. “Will they stop the nausea?”
“Hope so, or Shyam and I are gonna have a problem.” He sets the tray on my lap and fixes me up with a pill, telling me to chase it down with water. I do as I’m told, reaching for the glass on the tray. I wouldn’t normally take drugs, but I trust Charlie’s word that it will make me feel better—and above that, I want to feel better.
After, I look at the food, breathing in the creaminess of chicken soup dusted in herbs. My cheeks bloat to heave. There are a few crackers on the tray. I break one apart, swallowing down my sudden watery mouth. Never in my life has food made me feel so sick. I hate it.
Charlie sits next to me on the bed, leaning forward with elbows on his knees, watching me from the side. “You’ll like this soup, I hope. I taught the old woman how to make it,” he teases, reciting what I said about his housekeeper, Eliza.
Smirking, I ask if he’d like some soup but he says no, that he wants me to eat it all if I can. “We’ll have something heavier to eat later. I’ll make you dinner.”
My eyes thin, interest to know more of him peaking. We seem to be on a level today, and he is answering all my questions...
“What is it, baby?”
“Where did you learn to cook, Charlie?” It’s the one thing I’ve never thought to ask before. Men like Charlie don’t need to know how to cook, yet he does, and with excellence.
“My mamá.”
My eyes enlarge. I remember when he told me that he cut out her heart and burned it. Maksim burned roses and put them on his parents’ graves as a symbol to how sinister they were because they raped and abused his childhood. Charlie burned the heart of the woman who gave him life because she sold his sister.
They’re not so different if I really think about it. Charlie just knows how to control the monster within.
“She wasn’t completely useless,” he says, following my train of thought. “Before she took Gina from me, she was a good woman with many qualities—like you.”
Me? My nose wrinkles. I don’t have any qualities like that.
“The buttery chicken I make,” he says, “the one you like, it was her recipe.”
“Don’t you think that’s odd?” I can’t stop myself, speaking between bites. “How you killed her, and yet you use her recipes, don’t you think that’s odd?”
He grins, expression darkening with mysterious certainty. “Ohhh, I think odder things have happened.”
I look away and continue eating the crackers, wondering if he means me. Am I the odder thing? Or does he mean us as one entity?