Page 45 of Beloved Sacrifice

He grabbed the bottle of water again, and went back to the task of cleaning her cuts. He worked in silence for what felt like half an hour, but was probably less than half that—the silence and tension making each moment stretch painfully. He knew it had to at the very least sting to have her cuts washed, but she didn’t react.

“I want to make something clear, Ms. Hancock.”

“Rose. Call me Rose.”

“Thank you, I will, Rose. I am not a bounty hunter. I’m specialize in kidnapping and ransom situations. I was hired to find you and help you return home to Boston. I’m here to save you.”

“Save me?” She let out a sad little laugh. “I’m afraid that ship sailed.”

There was a weary darkness about her. Marek had once read a lovely short story written in Thai about how weary Death was, and how Death would mourn each time it collected another soul. The figure of death was described as bowed and slumped under the weight of endless years of sorrow.

Rose reminded him of that story—there was something in her eyes that made him think she’d known too much sorrow for her age.

Her bare feet weren’t in good shape. “May I?” He gestured toward her ankle.

“Yes.”

She watched him as he carefully lifted her foot at the ankle and placed it on his knee, then poured water over her sole.

“You’re getting your pants wet,” she said.

“That hardly matters.”

“You’re a gentleman.” She stressed the last word as if finding that descriptor a great revelation.

“I strive to be.”

“Huh.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I haven’t run into a whole lot of genuine gentlemen in my life. Good manners, courteous, but gentlemen…” She shook her head, but not in anger. She’d softened toward him.

Time to try again.

“I’d like you to tell me who you were trying to kill. And why.”

She sighed. “How much do you know about the Trinity Masters?”

“Enough that the Grand Master trusts me, and enough to know you probably shouldn’t be talking to me about it.”

“I don’t give a fuck anymore.”

“Language,” he chided.

She reacted as if he’d slapped her. She looked away and said, “I’m sorry, Si—”

The words cut off mid-sentence. He checked to see if there was a particularly bad cut on the foot he was washing that he’d jabbed. Her feet were scraped and still dirty even after the washing.

“Rose, did I hurt you?”

“No. You just reminded me.”

“Reminded you of what?”

“That’s a messy question I’m not going to answer. At least not yet. Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” He set down the foot he was working on. Her legs were now a wet mess.

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