Page 187 of Innocent Intentions

He kneels and carefully helps me out of the shredded, ruined gown. I stare brokenheartedly at it on the floor. It was once a symbol of our freedom, our magic night. Now it’s just a reminder of everything we lost.

Matty’s eyes scan me, but there’s no lust in them. Only sorrow.

I glance down at myself. My body is a map of damages. Bruises. Dried blood. Dirt. Pale, thin, wasted skin. My bones jut where curves used to be.

“Oh, my sweet girl. I’m so, so sorry.” He whispers, lost in his thoughts.

I don’t respond. Not because I’m angry, but because I know anything I say will be brushed off. He needs to see I don’t blame him.

“Can you stand, sweetheart?” he asks.

I try, but my legs buckle instantly.

He catches me. “Okay. I’m going to hold you in the shower. You won’t have to stand at all. Does that work?”

I nod.

He carries me into the shower cradled in his arms and turns on the water. He waits until it’s warm before stepping under the spray.

With one arm wrapped tightly around me, he detaches the sprayer with the other and rinses me. Then he replaces the sprayer with my shampoo and pours a generous amount on my head. He massages my hair, carefully working it into my scalp. I almost drift off under the warmth of his touch.

He rinses and repeats, then conditions just as I taught him.

He lathers a loofah and begins to wash my body, slowly and tenderly.

“Again,” I murmur when he stops.

“Of course, sweetheart.” He kisses the top of my head and begins again. And again. And again.

On what must be the sixth round, I give him a small nod.

I finally feel clean.

He steps out, dries me off, and dresses me in a pair of his boxer briefs. They hang loosely on my hips, and I hear him sigh in defeat.

He wraps me in his thick robe and lays me on his side of the bed.

After dressing quickly, he returns to my side.

“What do you need? What can I get you? The doctor will be here soon.”

I pat the mattress beside me.

He climbs in without hesitation and pulls me into his lap.

I fall asleep in his arms.

***

The door opens, waking me.

Matty’s voice is soft as he whispers in my ear, “The doctor’s here, sweetheart.”

A throat clearing draws my gaze. An older man with white hair and kind eyes steps into the room.

“Hello, Margot. I’m Dr. Anderson. I’m the doctor for the Syndicate. I’m here to check you over.” His voice is full of warmth. I instantly trust him.

An idea pops into my head. I glance at his ring finger. Empty.

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