Page 21 of Lily

“Sorry, I…”

He kissed her forehead again and pulled her close. “It’s okay. I understand.” He rocked her for a minute and then released her. “Can you put your seatbelt on this time, sweetheart?”

She reached for it and tugged it across her body as he pulled out of the parking lot. It felt like she was too far away from him, but the belt kept her firmly in her own bucket seat. She sat on her hands to keep from fidgeting, but every time she moved, she was aware of the welts—so she stopped moving.

“Ten minutes, Rose. Hold on for me. Then we’ll be home.”

It was odd how he said home as if his place was hers. She’d never even been to his place. Finally, he parallel-parked next to a row of townhouses. He turned off the engine, jumped out of the car, and jogged to her side.

She hadn’t moved. She was frozen and in shock.

He opened her door, unfastened her seatbelt, and lifted her gently into his arms.

A hiss escaped her lips as he cradled her. Every welt was on fire.

“So sorry. Hold on for me, Rose.” He rushed toward the door, unlocked it, and carried her inside, where he stood her on her feet. “Let me grab your stuff.”

She stood there, watching as he ran back to the car, grabbed all the bags, and then kicked the door shut and returned to her. A second later, bags landed on the floor all around them, and he locked the door in three places.

Finally, he took a deep breath. “Let’s work on that fucking collar first.” He gently took her hand and led her through the living room and into the kitchen. She noticed his furnishings were sparse, the bare necessities. Couch, chair, television on a stand, end table. The kitchen was attached and just as bare. Table, four chairs. Not much was on the counter. There were no decorations, nor were there any personal items like pictures or knickknacks.

“Would you rather stand or sit, sweetheart?”

She licked her lips. “Stand,” she whispered. Sitting hurt. Her legs were shaking and bare. She’d left the sheet in the car.

He yanked open a deep drawer. It looked like it was filled with tools. Not kitchen utensils. He immediately grabbed a black box, set it on the counter, and opened it. Seconds later, he pulled out something that looked like a pick.

He stepped closer to her. “Can you tip your head to the side?”

She did as he requested, praying he could get this fucking thing off her neck. He’d managed to pick the lock on the back door of the house. Could he also pick this kind of lock?

“Good. It’s a simple padlock,” he commented. “I could pick this blindfolded.” He stuck his tool in it, tinkered for a few seconds, and the damn thing popped free. Marco wasted no time unfastening the collar and lifting it away from her neck.

Roselia gasped as she reached up and rubbed her neck with both hands. She’d never been so relieved in her life. She started sobbing and couldn’t stop. It had been so long since she’d been able to truly cry freely without being punished for her weakness.

A fleeting embarrassment consumed her at her burst of emotion in front of this man she barely knew, but she didn’t have the energy to stop the tears. Besides, Marco gently pulled her into his arms and held her close. He buried his face in her hair. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re safe. Let it out.”

She sobbed for so long, and her legs wouldn’t hold her up. Marco carefully lifted her into his arms again, rocked her against his chest, and carried her out of the room.

She was vaguely aware of him climbing stairs, but the tears kept falling. Months of pain and fear and anguish. Months of sorrow and torture. Hopelessness.

She clung to him.

And he held her.

He whispered kind words over and over. Most of them she didn’t catch between the sobs, but it didn’t matter. She heard the tone. Someone cared.

He held her like a baby, rocking her as he paced around the dimly lit space in what she assumed was his bedroom. The only light came from a lamp on the nightstand.

When she finally managed to control her sobs and bring them down to sniffles, she was limp with exhaustion. Months of stress and tension had taken a toll on her body.

Marco carried her into the attached bath and flipped on the lights. “Can I stand you up, sweetheart?”

She sniffled and nodded.

He sat on the toilet seat, stood her in front of him, held her hip with one hand, and reached over to turn the water on in the tub with the other. He met her gaze next. With him sitting and her standing, they were eye to eye. “How about you soak in the tub for a bit? It will warm you up, and then I want to look at those welts and put medicine on them.”

She glanced at the tub. She hadn’t had a bath in eight months. “Okay,” she murmured. “It might hurt.”

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