Page 16 of Sinful Scars

I sit back up and wrap the blankets around myself.

Even after sleeping the day away, I’m still exhausted. My body hurts, and I feel like I could sleep another ten hours if my mind would let me.

But the thoughts are coming in fast and once I fall into the spiral, it takes nothing short of a miracle to pull me out.

Even in the darkness, I can just make out the outline of the door.

Is he on the other side, listening?

I should be freaked out by the thought of being in acabin in the woods with a strange man who admitted to watching me. I’ve seen enough horror movies to know how this story ends and yet, no alarm bells ring when I think of him. If anything, I’m somewhat comforted by the knowledge that he’s just outside the door.

My therapist will have a field day with such a truth bomb.

What I can’t seem to get over is the fact he wouldn’t let meseehim, which could mean any number of things.

The first that comes to mind is that I already know him, which would explain my lack of fear when it comes to him keeping me locked up in a cabin in the middle of nowhere. But his voice wasn’t one I recognized. So, it has to be because he either plans on keeping me alive for the time being and doesn’t want to risk me giving his description to the cops, or he’s ashamed of how he looks, and he doesn’t want me to reject him.

“Such a Lucia thought.” I run my fingers through my tangled hair.

No matter how bad it gets, my cousin can always find a way to turn the situation into a gag joke or lighten any mood with a single crude comment. It’s one of the reasons we work so well together. She is the light, and I am the darkness.

The sound of the key turning in the lock makes me cry out, and I panic as the door opens. I’m not wearing the blindfold like he asked, but no light floods the room so only the shadowed outline of him appears in the doorway.

He’s tall, to the point where he has to duck slightly to fit inside the room, and almost as broad as the frame. But I can make out nothing else. No facial features. Not even the color of his hair.

“Are you okay?” His rich, gravelly voice sends a shiverdown my spine. “I thought I heard you cry out in your sleep.”

“I’m fine.” My cheeks burn. Suddenly, I’m grateful for the fact that there is no light in the room. “Bad dream.”

“Do you…” He clears his throat, but he makes no move to approach me. “Do you want to talk about it?”

A smile tugs at my lips at the kind gesture, but I don’t want to bother him with my problems. That’s what I’m paying my therapist for.

“I’m fine, thanks. But I need to use the bathroom.”

“Uh, sure. I need you to put the blindfold back on.”

I roll my eyes, but I don’t fight him on it. I feel around the bed for the blindfold before securing it over my eyes.

The moment I finish tying it behind my head, his heavy footsteps approach, and I hold my breath as he takes my hand and leads me off the bed.

I brush my thumb over the back of his hand.

His body tenses beside me, but he doesn’t let go, so I do it again.

The skin feels different, almost rough. But not in the way that a scab is rough. No, this is different. Scars, perhaps?

Is this why I have to wear a blindfold? Because he’s scarred?

Before I can stop myself, I gently brush the back of his hand once more as a silent gesture of comfort, hoping that he realizes that he can trust me as much as I trust him.

I’m guided inside the bathroom, and the moment the door closes, I pull off the blindfold and wince at the harsh fluorescent lights.

The space is rustic, with wooden slats on the walls and floor, and a clawfoot bathtub to the right and the toilet andsink to the left.

I can’t help but notice the lack of mirrors above the sink as well as personal toiletries except for a toothbrush, which only adds to my curiosity.

Maybe he’s not just hiding from me, but from himself as well.

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