Page 83 of Reckoning

“Like I’m a victim.”

She didn’t say anything else for a long time.

I directed her along winding side roads, hoping to stay away from traffic cameras or any major intersections where people could be looking for us. Shawn’s car should be free from bugs or trackers, though I didn’t put it past Conrad to follow him as well. But I didn’t have time to check.

It was dark when we pulled into the garage of Shawn’s building. The place was private and locked down. We kept our faces turned away from the security cameras, but I didn’t keep my hands off her in the elevator. In the corner of the small metal box, I held her as tight as I could manage.

*

I was at a loss once we stepped inside, but Madeline took the reins as though it was natural for her. I supposed it was; she was just always suppressed by me.

“You need to shower. Relax.”

I protested, but she insisted. My clumsy fingers, hampered by pain and the brace, couldn’t manage the buttons of my shirt. She brushed my hand aside gently, then helped pull it off me.

She gasped, seeing for the first time the bruise on my bicep where Conrad had hit me. I turned away from her, hiding it, but she followed me. She put her hand over the mark, covering my pale skin with hers. The other arm wrapped around to my back as she looked up at me.

“You’re so brave, Meyer.”

Water fell onto her face, and I realized I was crying again. She pushed up on her toes so that I could bury my face in her dark hair. I wrapped my arms around her, not caring about the twinge in my side, holding her like a life vest while I let myself be swept away.

No one had ever seen it happen before. Shady doctors came to tend severe injuries and gave detached, clinical diagnoses followed by pain relievers and the occasional splint or butterfly bandage to suture together the split skin. But no one had ever touched my injuries and seen the more hysterical damage. The daily fear that plagued me ever since I became aware of what was happening to me, wondering why my sister didn’t receive the same treatment. The desperate desire to be perfect, to avoid another blow, and being surprised every time it wasn’t enough.

The only person who had successfully staved off an attack had been Eva. And then she had left me alone.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered when I finally pulled away, rubbing my face with my good hand.

“Don’t you dare apologize.” She sounded angry, but she wasn’t looking at me. She focused on my belt, pulling down my pants and boxers with professional disinterest. Her mouth was twisted into a grimace.

“Go get clean.” She pushed me toward the open bathroom door, but I halted. I would either need a plastic bag for my hand or have to hold it out of the water. She saw my predicament. Then, without looking away, she started to undress.

“No, Maddie, I don’t need—”

“Don’t fight me, Meyer. I don’t have the energy for it.”

Despite my grief and shame, I had to fight myself not to respond to her body. I wanted her so much—I always wanted her—and I felt so vulnerable.

“You helped me before, so let me help you now.” She started the water, holding a hand under the stream until it warmed.

She looked nervous. We had been naked together so many times before—when I helped her that first week, when we warmed her back to life, and when we slept together—so why was she hesitating now?

I knew the answer when I thought about it. We were finally actually bare in front of each other. The curtain had been pulled aside, and she saw me fully, the whole story. I wouldn’t be able to hide from her after this. She was inside me deeper than she ever could be.

It was a struggle to hold still while she washed my hair, her fingers gently massaging my scalp. I jerked as she pressed on a lingering bruise from when my head had struck a rock the day her parents had shown up, and she stood on tiptoes again to kiss it gently. When she grabbed the sponge to wash my body, I took it from her with my good hand.

“I can’t stand it if you touch me anymore,” I confessed.

She just nodded and washed her own hair, facing away from me while I scrubbed as well as I could with one hand above my head. When we were washed clean of suds, she handed me a towel while wrapping herself with another. We dried and dressed, her helping me again with my shirt.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, feigning nonchalance as she towel-dried her hair in the mirror.

“No,” I answered honestly, and I won a small smile.

“Too bad.”

In the freezer was enough meat to feed an army, and combined with the pasta in the pantry, it made for a simple but filling meal. She forced me to clean my plate, threatening to spoon-feed me if I didn’t finish it on my own. When my eyelids started to droop, she stood and dragged me into the bedroom. The dirty plates sat on the table with no one to clean up after us for once. I stood dead on my feet while she pulled back the covers, then I allowed myself to be placed on the bed. She put me on the right side, opposite of where I usually slept, so that my injured hand was on the edge. Then, with no trace of hesitation in her movements, she slipped under the covers next to me. She put her head on my shoulder, and my good hand wrapped around her. She hitched a leg over mine and threw one arm across my chest.

Wrapped in the warmth and comfort of blankets and this woman, far from the reach of those who wanted to hurt me, I drifted into a dreamless sleep.

When I woke up, she was gone.

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