Page 109 of Under Your Scars
“Do you want me to stop touching you?”
I think about it for a long time.
Too long.
So long that my water has run cold. So long that I don’t realize he’s finished washing my hair until he moves out from behind me to unplug the drain and let the water rush out of the tub.
He takes one of the towels out of the warmer and drapes it around me as I stand up. He uses another towel to dry my hair. He holds out his arm so I can use it to steady myself as I step out of the tub onto the warm marble tiles.
“I’m going to go get you some clothes. Stay here.”
I nod, and he leaves. I sit on the edge of the tub, watching the stray water from my hair drip onto the floor. I’m not even sure I really think about anything as I stare at the puddle near my feet.
An unknown amount of time passes before Christian steps back into the bathroom, in one hand, fuzzy socks, a pair of panties, and my favorite sleep shorts. Thrown over his shoulder, one of his sweaters. I know it’s his because it’s way bigger than I am, and it’s a deep, ruby red. I have no such color in my entire wardrobe. He places the clothes on the counter and lets me get dressed alone. When I pull the sweater over my head, the familiar scent of him warms not only the chill in my bones, but the emptiness in my soul.
I open the bathroom door to find him freshly changed and dressed for bed too. He’s lounging on the bench at the edge of his bed, scrolling on his phone. I clutch the long arms of the sweater and walk towards him. Once I’m close, he looks up and gives me his positively stunning billion-dollar smile.
“Sit.” He nods at the space on the floor between his legs. For once, his instructions sound like a request instead of a command. I listen, sitting with my knees tucked up to my chest, facing away from him. He gathers the ends of my hair and begins to gently comb through the tangles. He’s so cautious and meaningful with each stroke of the brush through my long hair. Once it’s free of tangles, I feel him begin to braid it in one long plait down my back.
“Where did you learn to braid hair?”
“In the beginning, when I would come see you in the middle of the night, you’dalwayshave your hair like that. Sometimes, you’d have it in one down your back. Other times you’d have a side braid with strands loosely framing your face. And sometimes you’d have two braids. I imagine at some point in our lives, like when we’re old and gray and your bones ache, you would have been too tired to do it yourself, so I taught myself so that I could do it for you.”
A new wave of tears escapes my eyes. “You’re so perfect it’s infuriating. It almost makes up for all the murder.”
I hear him laugh behind me, draping the finished braid over my shoulder. I twist it in between my fingers and turn to look at him from my place on the floor. “Goodnight, Christian.”
I get up to leave, but my name on his lips stops me. “Sleep here with me tonight.” I open my mouth to protest, but he beats me to it. “I promise I’ll stay on my side.”
I take a deep breath. “Okay.”
I let myself into his plush bed, sliding under the comforter and lying rigid on my back, staring at the ceiling. After a moment, he crawls into bed, on the far side of the California king, and clicks off the bedside lamp.
“Goodnight, Elena. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
I wake up surrounded by soft sheets and a masculine scent. I wiggle against a warm body. I lift my head, meeting Christian’s eyes and a soft smile, with his hands thrown behind his head, his biceps flexed. He’s lit by the soft morning light from the windows in such a way that he’s basking in a golden glow.
The kind of glow that makes him seem safe.
I gasp and sit up quickly, my face turning down into a scowl, ready to scold him for cuddling me in the night. But when I sit up, I realize that he’s on the very edge of his side of the bed, one of his legs thrown over the side and resting on the ground. I look behind me, finding a large expanse of space.
I was the one who came to him in the night, and I slept better than I have in days.
CHAPTER 31
THE SILENCER
Sometimes when I look at Edwin, all I can see is his face the night he picked me up at the police station after my parents were shot. That was thirty years ago, but I can still see the precise shade of horror in his eyes. I think that’s the worst part of his memory fading.
For the most part, he knows who I am. He knows I’m Christian and he knows he’s the man who raised me.
But sometimes he calls me Thomas, and those are his worst days, because I have to tell him that my parents are dead and watch him take that news like a car wreck. Edwin loved my father. They were like brothers, which is why he’s my godfather. It hurts to watch him relive his grief, because Edwin may not remember it, but I certainly do. I was only six, but so many times I remember catching Edwin with a rosary and tears in his eyes, praying to God that my parents find peace. He also prayed for me, and prayed for himself to find the strength to raise me.
I was a demon after my parents died. I only got away with so much because, frankly, I was rich and could afford to. My juvenile record is sealed, but if I recall correctly, I was arrested seven times before the age of ten. By the time I was sixteen, I had a record the size of a phonebook and they started charging me as an adult. Edwin always came to my rescue though, pulling every string he could to keep me from sending my life down a drain.
I think he understood I was only acting out because of trauma, so he let most of it go. The only time he was ever hard on me was the one time I put another kid in the hospital for saying something vulgar about my mother.
