Page 8 of Bitter Queen (Advantage Play 4)

“Do you want to shower or anything? Maybe get some sleep?”

And maybe not stare at the wall like a crazy person?

More silence.

Rubbing my hand over my face, I stalk closer to make sure I’m in her line of sight. “Q, I’m gonna need you to start talking to me.”

“I thought men liked their women silent.” There’s an edge in her voice that gives me hope she isn’t completely dead inside.

“Not this silent,” I joke before taking in her bruised complexion. The makeup that’d been caked on her face since the tournament has slowly rubbed away to reveal black and blue undertones that would make a UFC fighter cringe. “How’s your face feeling?”

Confused, she drops her gaze down to the ground but doesn’t say anything.

“Answer me,” I press, keeping my tone soft as if she’s a scared little creature.

Peeking up at me through her thick, dark upper lashes, she mumbles, “I-I don’t know what’s wrong with my face.”

“Have you looked in the mirror?”

Again. Silence.

I fight the urge to shake her and squeeze my hands into tight fists at my sides. “Answer me, Q.”

“I haven’t looked in the mirror since the night I was taken.”

My eyes widen before I cover my shock with indifference. What the hell did they do to her?

“You should probably take a look at the damage,” I return. “Matteo said the bathroom is over here.”

Making sure not to touch her, I guide her into the white marble master bathroom, then stop her in front of the mirror. Q’s attention is firmly on her feet, but her slender frame is quaking like a leaf. So bad that I’m afraid she might collapse onto the floor.

What. The. Hell.

“Hey,” I whisper. My palms itch to touch her, but I restrain myself. “What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head and squeezes her eyes shut. “I can’t look.”

“Why?”

Her lips turn white from the pressure of her teeth digging into them before a shallow breath slips past her lips. “Because it won’t be me in the mirror.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not me,” she repeats. Her voice cracks before she sniffs softly. “I’m gone. And now, I’m terrified to see the girl looking back at me in my own reflection because she’ll be a stranger. And I can’t bear the thought of it. I can’t look at my long blonde hair without hearing his—” Her mouth snaps shut before her eyes widen in fear, and she looks over at me.

“Tell me,” I demand.

She shakes her head.

“Tell me,” I repeat with a bit more force.

Lower lip quivering, she whispers, “He loved my hair.” The blood drains from her face. “Loved how it was naturally blonde. Loved how long it was so that he could wrap it around his fist. Loved to pull on it until clumps would come out in his hand. Loved to drag me around the room with it if I ever disobeyed him. Loved to pet it when I’d been a good girl and did whatever he asked of me. He loved it.” She swallows before a bitterness overcomes her. One that’s so strong, I can almost taste it. Then her hatred-filled gaze meets mine, and she spits, “And now, I hate it.”

Shit.

“Wait right here,” I order.

I stride to my room and dig through the sacks on my bed that Matteo had mentioned. When I find a pair of scissors and a couple of boxes of hair dye, I return to her bathroom and carefully set them on the counter in front of her.

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