Page 33 of Dangerous Deception

Her eyes dart around the room as if she expects something terrible to burst out of the closet, then they flick up to me and she whimpers in the back of her throat.

“Sweetheart, I need to know a few things before we get you cleaned up. I need to know… did they hurt you?”

An obvious question, but I need to know how badly they harmed her. Walking in on her naked with that man on top of her had enraged me in ways I never knew were possible and I regret killing him so quickly. I want to go back and take him apart piece by piece for even daring to look in her direction. But I don’t know the details. She was missing for hours, and the last thing I want is to trigger anything by touching her.

She doesn’t look away from me. Her eyes flood with tears as she shakes her head.

“Are you sure?” I approach with another few steps. “You can tell me. It’s okay. You’re safe here with me.”

She shakes her head again and her lips part, but no words come. Instead, she closes her eyes and the tears fall silently down her cheeks. One is deeply bruised and my heart continues to break for every new painful detail I notice.

“Okay,” I murmur. “That’s okay. Do you remember anything they did to you?”

Again, she shakes her head quickly.

“Okay, sweetheart, okay.” This clearly isn’t the time. While asking her these questions while it’s fresh in her mind would help me, it doesn’t seem to be helping her. I close the remaining distance and as I hold out my hand, preparing to ask her if I can touch her again, she sags forward into my arms with another muted whimper.

There’s my answer.

She’s as light as a feather when I scoop her into my arms and carry her into the en-suite. Vito’s jacket falls away from her shoulders, and I make a mental note to make sure to burn the thing. The fewer reminders she has of this night, the better.

We fill the bath with water and bubbles and a few essential oils to try and soothe her aching body. Not once does she let me move far away from her. Even when I set her down on the counter so I can run the bath, her grip on me becomes like iron and I don’t have the heart to pull myself away. So I work around her need to hold on to me.

“Alright, I’m going to help you into the bath now, okay?” Facing Adelina, I gently grasp her bare shoulder. “Are you ready?”

She gives me a half-nod, remaining silent as I help her back up, remove her panties, and help her step into the warm water. I’ve taken care to make sure it’s not too hot and kept the water running with the plug in halfway to ensure the bathwater will continue to drain away the dirty water.

She sits in the bath and keeps ahold of one of my hands, tears falling silently down her cheeks.

How do I help her?

How do I make sure that she feels safe here?

Those questions and more swarm around my mind as I vocalize my actions while I work. With soap and a cloth, I carefully wash away that bastard’s blood from her skin. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t let go of my hand, either, so I continueto work around her. The constant flow of water stops her from having to sit in dirty water, and soon, there isn’t a speck of blood left on her.

I wash her all over once more, just to be sure, then move on to her hair and face. Washing her hair is the easy part, but things get tricky when I try to wash the makeup stains from her cheeks. She flinches at my touch, so I stop, but then she looks at me with such pained eyes and tilts her head up that I understand she wants me to continue.

I’m as tender as I can be when washing her bruised cheek, stamping down the hatred that rises up each time I look over the marks on her skin.

I definitely killed that bastard too quickly.

Once her face is clean, I spend a long time tending to the rope burns on her wrists and ankles. Each time I ask her if she’s in pain, she shakes her head. That’s the extent of the responses I get out of her, but I make it work. Once she’s fully clean, I scoop her out of the water and set her down on some towels to pat her dry. The longer she’s silent and docile, the more concerned I grow beyond my initial worry.

Am I doing the right thing?

Maybe I should have insisted on the doctor.

Doing things at her pace is only worth it if it helps her, and I’m not a doctor. I don’t know whether her silence is a good thing or not. This is the first time in my life that I’ve cared for someone to this degree, and given the trauma she’s been through, I ache to make it right.

“Alright,” I say once I’ve helped her into some soft pajamas. “Let me get you some water. You need to stay hydrated.”

She doesn’t reply, but she does let go of my hand once I escort her into bed. Using a glass from the side table near the window, I fill it with water from the bathroom sink. As the glass fills, my phone buzzes to life with a message from Vito.

Vito: Found the other girl. Overdosed. Didn’t make it. Asshole’s in the cells.

Shit.

Marie.

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