Page 10 of The Hermit

It’s never too bad. Not physically, anyway.

But psychologically, I’ve been knocked off my feet more times than I can count.

Flashes of my dress being torn and the fear of being raped shoot through me. I stop walking and pressing my palm against my stomach, I suck in deep breaths.

“You okay?” Ciara asks.

I nod while fighting the memories back.

You survived. It’s all that matters.

Panic bleeds from the memories, threatening to overwhelm me.

Breathe.

Just breathe.

“Come,” Ciara says. “The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can climb into bed and rest.”

True.

My feet feel heavy as I force them to move, and I focus on regaining control over my emotions so they don’t drag me into a dark pit.

As we near the living room, I hear Dad say, “It’s a good day.”

A good day, my butt. All I want to do is curl up on the armchair by my window and process the crap I was forced to endure.

Even though I feel like shit, I lift my chin and school my features before we enter the room.

When Ciara and I notice a man standing with Dad near the fireplace, we both come to a stop at the same time.

The man’s tattoos and demeanor scream mafia, which makes me frown because Dad’s never brought home anyone from the mafia. He always meets them elsewhere.

Although I won’t stand a chance in a fight, I still move slightly in front of Ciara as I stare at the stranger.

There’s a word tattooed on his right cheekbone that I can’t make out and an X and broken heart beneath his left eye.

Ink also covers his neck and hands, but unless I move closer, I can’t make out the tattoos.

Not even a minute passes in which I take in everything about the man. The dark blue suit makes the blue of his eyes pop, and he has short and super neat dirty blond hair.

His appearance is immaculate, which makes me feel like I’ve just crawled out of the laundry basket. The sweatpants, old T-shirt, socks, and fresh bruises covering my face aren’t exactly my best look.

My gaze locks on his eyes again, and I feel something stir in my gut.

Ice blue.

My lips part as my gaze lowers to the tattoo on his cheekbone.

Is he the man who rescued me last night?

For a moment, our eyes remain locked, but then Dad draws my attention away when he says, “Come closer, girls.”

I blindly reach for Ciara’s hand and push her toward the couch that’s farthest away from our guest.

Dad gives me a look of warning as he says, “Stop being so overprotective, Grace.”

Never!

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