Page 17 of Sinful Scars

I know all too well what it’s like to be so riddled with guilt and shame that it’s hard to look yourself in the mirror. For so long after my parents’ death, I hated myself for being the one to survive. Everyone said it was a miracle, from the firefighters to the paramedics who declared my parents and brother dead at the scene.

My nonna always said that I was given a second chance, and that I should see life as a gift rather than something to feel guilty over. But as an eight-year-old, I was unable to see the silver lining in it all.

How could I when those I loved most in the world were taken too soon?

Looking down at myself, I cringe at the sight of my torn blouse.

It feels weird that this stranger has seen so much of me, more than any man has seen in a while, and I don’t even know his name…

Once I’m finished relieving myself, I retie the blindfold and softly tap on the door to let him know I’m all finished.

He wastes no time taking me by the hand to lead me back to the bedroom, and I relax at his touch. He’s so warm and gentle, despite his towering size.

“I’ll bring you something to eat.” He releases my hand once we’re back in the bedroom.

“Wait.” The sudden panic at being left alone catches me off guard. “Don’t go…”

“You need to eat something.”

It might just be the fact that this stranger is showingmore concern for my well-being than any man has ever done in the past, except for maybe my uncle, or it might just be the fact that I’m still in shock about what happened, but I don’t want our interaction to end.

“Can’t we eat together in the kitchen? I promise you can trust me. I…I won’t run.”

“No.”

“Please.” My voice cracks, and I silently curse myself for sounding so desperate and weak.

“No.” There’s a hard edge to his voice, and I know he’s not going to budge.

“Can I at least see your face?”

“I’m sorry. It’s for your own safety. Please, just trust me, Elle.”

I gasp. “You know my name.”

I don’t know why I’m surprised. Of course, he knows my name. The guy admitted to stalking me for god-knows how long and yet, it’s still a shock hearing him speak it out loud in that rich, gravelly voice.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“That’s okay, I think I’d rather rest a bit more.”

“Very well. Let me know when you are hungry.” He shuts the door, locking it once more.

I pull the blindfold off and blink, finding the overhead light on.

The bulb isn’t bright, but it casts the room in a soft glow.

As I glance around, the room is fairly cramped, with the bed and side table taking up most of the space. There’s a small chest of drawers, but nothing more. I notice the distinct lack of personal items except for a single framed photograph of a woman on the bedside table that looks grainy and worn, as if it was taken decades ago. Other than that, there are no pictures hanging on the walls or colognebottles on the dresser. There are no books stacked beside the bed or even a rogue coffee mug left over from a lazy Sunday morning.

When I pull the drawers open, they’re completely empty of clothes.

“Who are you?”

His jacket lays discarded on the floor, and I pick it back up and pull it on, breathing in that familiar smell before perching on the edge of the bed. The sleeves swamp me, and I can’t help but remember what it was like to be cradled in his arms, to feel his warm body against mine.

“I’m going mad,” I mutter under my breath as I wrap the jacket around me.

But I can’t shake the feeling that his smell isn’t the only familiar thing about him. There’s something else, but I can’t seem to figure out what it is.

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