Page 17 of Broken Princess

Enzo is here. Enzo will protect me. Enzo will keep the monsters at bay.

I don’t know how long I slept for, but this time when I wake up, the monitors are muted, the lights are low, and I hear gentle snores emanating from a sleeping giant trying to take over my pillow. There’s a part of me that wants to evict the intruder, but there’s also a bit of me that wants to crawl back into his arms and hide there. Perhaps forever.

Enzo Moretti—a man I’ve wanted to climb like a tree since I was seventeen years old—is who shows up to dispose of my body. The universe has a twisted sense of humour. Of course, the guy I’ve dubbed Henry Cavill’s more attractive Italian brother finds and rescues me at my lowest. Now he’s aware of how weak I am… What a coward I’ve been.

Fucking typical.

He stirs, and the movement brings my focus back, snapping me out of my bout of self-loathing. It’s easier to focus now.

“How long was I out?”

“We found you Friday night. It’s Sunday morning now. Although I’d argue it’s still yesterday. Four AM is not a reasonable time to be waking up, woman,” he gruffs out as he rubs his far-too-enticing stubble with his palms.

Snap out of it, Rory. Now is not the fucking time.

“I’ve been asleep for a day and a half. I’ll wake up when I damn well please.”

He’s more awake now and considers my words before finally nodding in agreement.

I take a deep breath to snap myself out of whatever mood this is when I catch an unfamiliar scent. “Why do I smell of coconut, Enzo? It’s freaking me out.”

I hear a nervous cough before he clears his throat and says, “We cleaned all your wounds with the doctor, but… but your hair was covered in blood, so Benny and I washed it.” For some reason he’s awkwardly frozen, looking guilt-ridden.

I blink at him in astonishment. I have a vague recollection of feeling cared for, of someone singing, someone talking to me, someone stroking my hair. In all honesty, I had assumed it was a new enhanced feature of my favourite coping mechanism—a lucid dream or, I don’t know, some kind of hallucination. Makes more sense than someone coming to my rescue and looking after me.

Caring whether I lived or died.

That’s technically not true. Max cared a lot about whether I died. He just wanted to know how far he could push me without killing me. He screwed that one up a time or two. Admittedly, my memory is hazy, but in the early days there were instances when he “misjudged” as he put it. My most hated way of being resuscitated is good old-fashioned CPR. Hurts your ribs like a bitch. Adrenaline and defibrillators aren’t fun either. Hmmm, stab me in the chest or electrocute me… tough choice.

I’m really not normal anymore, am I? No one else considers their favoured way to be saved. I don’t think I’ve been normal for a long time.

“Thank you, Enzo,” I say with as much feeling as I can convey. “So, first things first, coffee, then we should talk… about everything.”

I’m dangerously close to feeling numb again. I’ve been sitting, staring at Enzo for thirty minutes, willing myself to speak. Every time I think I’m getting up the nerve, I bottle it and take another sip from my mug. Doing anything with my mouth other than talking him through what happened.

I really don’t want to do this. It’s bad enough having it in my head; I don’t want it in someone else’s too. He already looks at me like I’m broken. Damaged somehow. I don’t want him to know how damaged.

He leans forward and inspects my mug. “You need a refill. I’ll be right back.”

It feels like he’s gone a while. He reappears with what appears to be a coffee, covered in whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles. I can’t stop the tiny smile the gesture entices from me.

I take a deep breath, gearing myself up when he cuts me off. “Aurora, I think we should start with timelines. Sinclair and I need to start putting one together so we can track Max’s movements over the last week. To help us trace him when he was away from you—when he was making the arrangements for whatever they’re up to. It will help narrow down who’s helping him.” He pauses, reaching out featherlight fingers that brush the back of my hand enough to feel supported yet not pressured. “We can start with that. You don’t have to tell me anything else.”

I feel like a caged animal who’s been freed from a trap, freed from the dread that’s been clawing at me. He just needs dates and times, no details.

“Well then, we’re going to have to start with what day it is?”

“Like I said, Sunday.”

“Yeah, no, I got that. What’s the date?”

He swears under his breath and balls his hands up into fists. I don’t catch everything, but the gist was something to the effect of gonna kill that motherfucker when I get my hands on him. I appreciate the sentiment but not if I get there first.

Giving me today’s date, he grinds it out with such force I swear I can hear his teeth creaking under the strain.

“Huh, short stint this time,” I muse. “He locked me up last Thursday, so eight days in all.”

Focussing on the logistics is sort of liberating. I can be useful, without having to relive it. I’m guessing that the future therapy I’m going to need in abundance will find this approach entirely unhelpful. But you know, needs must and all. While I’m safe for now, if that psychopath finds out I’m alive, he will come after me with everything he has. He decides whether I live or die, and my living when he decided it was my time to die, is going to leave him unhinged.

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