Page 96 of Under Your Scars
The scar on my thigh from the glass is, regrettably, the only part of me that looks like it’s healing. That’s because my dad did the stitches. It’s a long, thin scar in a perfectly straight line. My body is littered in small cuts from when the glass shattered in the car accident and the club.
I take off my shorts, until I’m left in just my panties, and I stare at the space between my legs in the mirror. I can practically feel the exact moment Frank and Neil forced themselves into me. My eyes fill with tears, rolling down my face and dripping off my chin to land on my bare chest.
There’s a saying that every seven years, your body will be new. The same, but all your cells will be replaced.
In seven years, I’ll have a body that Frank and Neil would have never touched.
I wish that gave me comfort.
I take off my panties and turn on the shower, tears still streaming down my face as I wash myself. I scrub until my body is red and irritated. I scrub until it becomes painful, and my skin feels raw. Once I’m clean, I sit on the floor of the shower, under the hot spray of water, and stay there staring at the grout in between the stones on the walls until the water runs cold.
And in a billionaire’s mansion, the water does not run cold for a very, very, very long time.
I think my father is avoiding me, and it hurts. It hurts because I know the only thing he sees when he looks at me now is a vision of two men mounting me from behind while I writhe and scream.
That’s not how I want my father to look at me. It makes me feel dirty.
I find my mother in the study doing a puzzle with Edwin, who seems besotted by her. I guess that doesn’t surprise me. My mother’s energy is like a magnet. He’s taken to calling her Helen, and when I greet him, he simply gives me an awkward smile like I’m a stranger.
If Edwin is still lucid, he doesn’t make any indication of it at all. In fact, there’s so little recognition in his gaze that I’m half convinced I dreamt the whole conversation we shared last night.
I ask my mother where my father is, and she shrugs before telling me that he said he was going for a walk around the property early this morning and hasn’t been back in hours.
I leave them to go find something to eat. I want to be alone, and thankfully, Paolo isn’t in the kitchen when I get there.
I’m not in the mood for polite conversation with the staff. Now that I’ve gotten a good look at myself in the mirror, I don’t want them to stare at me and whisper or ask questions. Christian always has staff on the property. Maids. Chefs. Security Guards. Gardeners. Valets. I wonder how many of them have suspicions about Christian’s double life. Maybe they’re just paid too much and under too many NDAs to concern themselves with what Christian Reeves does in his spare time.
Even if it’s murder.
I rifle through the kitchen, searching through every pantry, cabinet, fridge and freezer. After I’ve finished my thorough examination, I don’t have the energy to make anything complicated, and choose to have some tomatoes sprinkled with salt and pepper. Simple. I grab the three ingredients along with a knife and a cutting board, and begin slicing the plump, perfectly ripe tomato into evenly sized pieces.
Halfway through cutting the tomato, I pause and stare at the knife in my hand. Tomato juice drips down the sharp blade and for a moment, an image of that blade against my wrist flashes across my mind. I take a deep breath and my eyes flicker between the knife in one hand and the veins on my wrist in the other.
“Elena.”
I yelp at the voice behind me, and without thinking, I turn and swing the knife with my eyes shut. My swing is stopped, and I peek open one eye to find Christian standing there in a black hoodie, looking down at me with concern and confusion in his eyes. I look to where my knife is poised just inches from his face, and I gasp.
He’s caught the knife by the blade.
I let go of the handle, and the knife clatters to the ground, covered in his blood.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t–”
“It’s okay.” He picks up the knife and tosses it into the sink before running his hand under cold water, and then taking a dish rag from a drawer and wrapping it tightly around the cut. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” My eyes are transfixed on his hand. “I’ve had worse. Don’t worry about it.”
He takes another knife from a drawer and finishes chopping the tomato for me. He looks around the counter and furrows his brow. “What were you making with a single tomato?”
I pretend I don’t hear the accusation hidden in his words.
He thinks I wanted to hurt myself. Maybe I would have if he didn’t walk in when he did.
I’m not going to admit that, though, so I stay quiet.
He looks at me for a moment, finally conceding and then passes over the slices of tomato. I season them with salt and pepper, and I try not to cower under the intensity of his stare as he watches me eat them.
I sigh, frustrated with the way he’s looking at me. I slam my palms down on the countertop. “What?”
“I want to show you something. Will you let me?”
