Page 15 of Under Her Skin

“Lucas knows a guy. If anyone can get into this file, it’s him.” She nods thoughtfully, but doesn’t take her eyes off of Chase. When he returns to the kitchen he grabs my computer.

“Lucas is about to send over the email address to his guy. I’ll forward the file from there.” Chase begins drafting the message while we wait. Within minutes, we’ve sent off the file.

“Jesus, this suspense is killing me.” Paige says as she perches on my kitchen counter. “What if he can’t get into the file?”

“Oh, he’ll get into it,” Chase says soberly. “I’m just afraid of what we may see.”

I feel sick at the implication. It could be from Kiel, who would do anything to fuck with me. Paige slides off the counter and puts her arms around Chase from behind.

“We have to know. For Ava.” He’s about to respond when I get an inbox notification. We all bolt toward my computer. The subject line is, File-Decoded. Paige opens it and, for a single, tense heartbeat, we’re all frozen.

“Coordinates,” Chase breathes. “Holy shit. we’ve got coordinates.”

15

AVA

Expensive black cars line the cobblestone horseshoe drive. Men dressed in custom tailored suits and women dripping in jewels flood Kiel’s estate. I’ve watched them arrive in droves. Thankfully I have viewed it all from my upstairs window. Fortunately, I’ve been left alone aside from a meal delivery; it smelt divine when it was delivered early, and yet I couldn’t stomach eating a single bite. Why gorge on the luxurious meal, when the unknown of tonight's festivities could have my dinner making an unexpected reappearance?

Shaking my head, I watch another couple gracefully climbing the wide stone steps to enter and enjoy Kiel’s twisted hospitality. I could only hope that he forgets about me and his party rages on without me, but I know it won't happen.

Kiel’s edict comes back to me. I know he has cultivated a role that I will be forced to play and hope that I would just have to be a trophy on his arm. But after weeks in his deranged presence, I can expect that tonight will push me to the edge. I just pray that, whatever edge it is, I can somehow bounce back.

So lost in my internal musings, I don’t notice that the quiet woman from before is walking to me with new clothes hanging over her forearm.

“I’m here to get you ready, miss.” she whispers in softly accented English. I nod and stand.

“What do you need me to do?” She ushers me toward the bathroom.

“Bathe first. Some of this may be a little uncomfortable, but it’s what Signore Kiel wants.” My ears catch on Signore. For the life of me, I can’t remember what language it belongs to. I decided to play my hand at being dumb and ask.

“I understand. I won’t make this difficult for you. Your accent is lovely, by the way. What language do you speak? Spanish, Portuguese, Italian?” She purses her lips and raises a delicate eyebrow, indicating I have failed at playing dumb.

“I cannot talk to you about such things. Please be silent so we can both live through this encounter. Disrobe, please.” I nod before tossing my clothes to the shiny white marble floor. Noting the bandages covering the still healing wounds on my stomach, she gently removes them, as though I was a child. As the scabbing wounds are revealed, she glances up to my face. I can detect the questions in her eyes, but watch as the concern slip away into an indifferent mask while she turns to place the bandage on the counter. I take this small moment in this opulent bathroom in this house of hell, that at least one person has a soul and cares, even though she shouldn’t.

She gestures for me to step into the bath. The heat of the water is instantly soothing. In the next instance, the woman is drenching my hair with a cup. While it’s a little odd, it’s also extremely comforting for someone else to wash my hair. Lost in the sensation of her firm hands cleaning my scalp and hair, I don’t notice her stepping back.

Her tone is brusque. “Towel off, then please lay on the bed. This will be the uncomfortable part.” She softens the demand. “And I’m sorry. But it must be done.” I frown at her and clutch my towel tighter against my body.

I feel my eyes narrow, whispering “What are you going to do to me?” She rifles through a bag I hadn’t seen her carry in.

“Signore Kiel insists that your private area is waxed. I do not know why, and I do not question him.” Turning her back, she plugs in the wax warmer and patiently stands there as it heats up.

“I really don’t want that.” Clutching at my towel as if it was a lifeline, I take a tentative step back towards the bathroom. My eyes never leave her face as I consider locking myself in the bathroom to avoid this unpleasant task. The woman's eyes are pleading as she stoically stands before me, a trapped victim.

Hoarsely, she croaks: “He will kill me if this is not done. Please let me do my job.” Shit, I can’t have this woman’s blood on my conscience, I’ve already been through so much, I don’t want her to pay for my insolence. My body slouches as I concede to her ministrations.

“Thank you.” Gratitude shining in her eyes, she gestures to the bed. “You can lay your towel on the bed and lay atop it.” I do as she requests, while she bustles about setting her things up. “I’ve done this many times, so I’ll try to make it fast.” That reassures me a bit, as I lay bare before her. I’ve never had this done before, but I’ve heard that it hurts. A laugh almost slips up my throat at the thought. It may hurt, but there’s no way it compares to anything I’ve endured in the last few weeks.

The wax is warm against my skin, then tears spring to my eyes as she rips off the first strip. True to her word, she works quickly.

“You have a new scar here,” she says. “It might hurt more here, be ready, yes?” I nod my understanding. Yes, there is a scar. It looks healed when you gaze upon it, and yet, the scar is sensitive and at times hurts. It’s a painful reminder of my time in the basement, of the person who fucked me and left me to this monster.

She places the strip over the scar. I squeeze my eyes shut preparing for the pain, yet a shocked gasp still leaves my parted lips. More tears gather in the corners of my eyes at the stinging fire that is left behind after she rips the strip away.

She presses a hand onto the newly exposed scar, thankfully easing the pain temporarily. “I’m sorry, that was the worst, I promise.” She sounds genuine. I nod with unshed tears in my eyes. I can’t blame this woman for anything. I suspect she’s a victim too. When she finishes the wax, she hands me a skimpy piece of black lace lingerie.

“What-” I begin, but quickly remember that I can’t ask her questions. I shake my head, swallow heavily and slide it on. I walk over to the mirror. My entire body is on display. This scrap of fabric doesn’t cover the essentials. I turn back to her and see she is holding another piece of fabric. She hands it to me. I shake it out, revealing a sheer robe. I slip it on. Glance back at the mirror, a sigh of relief slips out. This flimsy robe blocks out my figure. I quietly thank her profusely. Satisfied that I’m being compliant, she guides me to the vanity. I stand there whileshe quickly and efficiently applies light makeup to my face.

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