Page 21 of Twisted Princess

“Your father was a violent drunk?” I ask, digging for more information but keeping my tone casual to avoid scaring her off.

Maybe she’s more willing to talk because she thinks it’s distracting me from her work—hell, it is—but Mel doesn’t think twice before answering.

“Not with everyone. He never laid a hand on me or Mom. Ever. He was always kind of a sappy drunk around the house. But he was a big guy and kind of a sloppy drinker—he rubbed a lot of bar people the wrong way because of it.” Her eyes stay focused on my cut, but the corner of her lips tip up in a soft, sad smile.

“You love your father,” I assess, trying to read the meaning behind her emotion. “You miss him?”

“I miss my parents,” she qualifies—as if her father alone does not count.

I wait, hoping she’ll explain her statement without further encouragement. And to my surprise, she does.

“I had a happy childhood. My parents were very much in love—despite the fact that my father was an alcoholic. He was good to us, and my mom was one of the kindest people on this earth. Any other woman would have dumped him on his ass long before… That’s what he always said.”

Her voice cracks, and I know without asking that she must have lost her mother in a very permanent way.

“She died when I was eleven,” Mel explains, blinking rapidly before she starts on my next suture. “After that, things just kind of fell apart. My dad was so devastated—he stopped going to work. Drank every day from the moment he woke up until he finally passed out in front of the TV before the sun went down.”

“How long did that go on?”

“Long enough that he lost his job—eventually the house.” Mel shakes her head. “I managed to get him back on his feet enough to get a part-time job. But it didn’t last. He felt bad for not being able to take care of me. But he never recovered from losing my mom.”

“So he sent you to your uncle.”

Mel nods, her lips pressing into a thin line as I mention him—the man who sold her to Mikhail for a pretty penny because she was a virgin and not yet eighteen.

“How old were you when you came to Colorado?”

“Fourteen.” Her focus grows more intent as she starts in on my tenth stitch. “It would have been better if I’d stayed in Hawaii,” she says with conviction, her hand starting to shake for the first time.

My chest tightens as I see the window into a dark part of her past she normally keeps locked away.

“What could be worse than living on the streets at thirteen while taking care of your drunk father?” I fight to keep my voice steady, to remove every ounce of judgment from my tone. Because I know that this story is hard for her to tell—and I don’t want to think she’s the one I’m judging.

“On my fifteenth birthday, my uncle invited over five of his friends. They ended up bidding on who would get to give me my birthday present. My uncle got a hundred and fifty dollars to let his friend Chuck give me my first kiss. It wasn’t a month later that he made me give my first blow job to his boss. Got my uncle the promotion he’d been wanting. And once he found out that I could make him some nice money on the side, it just got worse from there.”

Mel’s hands ball into fists as they rest against my thighs, the needle seemingly forgotten. Despite her effort to control them, they tremble, matching the quiver in her voice. Still, she powers through, confessing a truth I’m not sure she’s told anybody before.

“Of course, selling me to Mikhail takes the cake.” Her eyes flash with sudden fire as her pain morphs into hatred. “I think my uncle got enough money from that deal to put a down payment on a house.”

Fuck. I knew Mel’s past had to be bad. Long ago, I gleaned from something she’d said that she’d been sexually assaulted in some fashion—though not raped. But I hadn’t imagined her uncle could be that twisted.

And while I’m not surprised to hear Mel’s past was rough long before she was picked up by Mikhail, it turns my vision red to think of those men using her so crassly.

“I’ll kill him for what he put you through,” I state, my voice low and deadly.

Mel’s eyes flash up from her blood-covered fists to meet mine. And a sharp breath rushes between her lips. She licks them, swallowing hard before she focuses on adding the last stitch to my side. “You don’t need to do that. It’s in the past,” she says, but it comes out on a whisper, as if she doesn’t have the strength to say it louder.

And the agony of hearing her pain is almost more than I can bear.

“There,” she says, releasing the breath she must have been holding, and with it goes the tension buzzing in the hair. “You’re all set.”

Mel smiles up at me, and the look she gives me now is like night and day—as if the confession she just gave me never even happened. Her walls are safely back in place, relieving her of those traumatic memories that must haunt her every day.

And while I wish I could say something to relieve the burden she bears, I don’t know what it would possibly be. The last thing I want to do is add to it by saying the wrong thing or keeping that door propped open if she needs to lock her secret away once more.

“Thank you,” I say instead, looking down to admire her handiwork. My gratitude encompasses more than just the stitches. I feel honored that she would trust me with her story. But I won’t say as much. “You really are quite good at that. This might turn out to be my prettiest scar.”

Mel laughs, genuine amusement softening her features and easing the iron fist around my heart. Rising, she heads into my bathroom to wash her hands, and I follow to do the same and clean up my bloody torso.

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