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He put his hand on her thigh. She wasn't sure if he needed the comfort or if he thought she did. Either way, she didn't move it. "Bobby's her husband. They met and married in New Zealand when I was at university. They were both ex-pats. When she got sick, they decided to come home. She's lucky to have him, and so am I."

"He seems like a good guy."

"Aye, he is."

Sinclair drove into the heart of the city, pulling into a close behind a large sandstone building. The street was lined with shops, pubs and restaurants, seeping with wealthy intellectuals. Representative of Edinburgh's somber theatricality, it was a reminder of the city's importance in being a military stronghold, capital of an independent county and major center for finance, law, and education. Simply put, Edinburgh was elegant. She glanced at Sinclair; he fit in here. He parked the car and she got out, followed closely by William. She watched as he retrieved her bags from the trunk and William relieved himself on a nearby trash bin. The night air was cool on her skin and she welcomed the chill. She wasn't sure what to expect or what would be expected, worst case scenario, she would find herself bound and chained, even possibly dead. He handed her the garment bag while he unlocked the door and led them to a lift that took them to the fourth floor and his penthouse flat. The spacious entry gave way to an open living plan highlighted by exposed brick walls and contemporary concrete surfaces. The ceiling was vaulted, coming down in steep angles. What furniture there was, was chic and modern, and although sparse, it was anything but mundane.

Sinclair put her bags behind a large translucent screen with an industrial black metal frame that acted as a room divider. "I only have the one bed. You can take it."

"That's not necessary," she said, peeking her head around. "I can sleep on the couch." He took the garment bag from her and hung it in a built-in closet.

"I insist."

She dropped the subject, though the thought of sleeping in his bed made her uncomfortable. The whole experience made her uncomfortable and she realized how utterly exhausted she felt.

"We should go over the logistics for tomorrow," he said in a sudden business-like tone, then stopped himself when he saw her face, looking down. "Though perhaps it could wait until tomorrow. Why don't you take a shower while I make us something to eat? Then I think I owe you some explanations."

"Uhm, sure." She stiffened, the memory of him washing her that first day flitting through her mind.

He showed her to the bathroom off the bedroom. "There are towels in the cupboard. I'll leave you to it."

She waited for him to go then went into the bedroom to retrieve the supplies Dr. Forbes gave her to clean her stomach.

He popped his head back in. "I could order food," he paused, seeing the bandages in her hands, "your stomach. I promised the good doc I would help you with it."

"I can manage," she said quickly.

"He wasn't sure you would be up to it and he left me an antibiotic ointment I'm supposed to apply."

"It's okay," she insisted.

"Either way, a second set of eyes won't hurt. Take your shower. I'll come back once you're dressed."

Charlotte turned the water on, letting it heat up, and carefully peeled away the cling wrap covering her wound. The small act alone made her feel lightheaded. She never would have made it in the medical profession. The crest stood out, red and inflamed against her pale skin. She looked at it in the mirror, studying its offensive and invasive reflection in detail for the first time. It was made up of an eight-point star, each point delicately patterned with tiny squares. Adorned on the top point was a crown, and on the bottom-point sat a sphynx. A wreath of thistles surrounded the figure of a man holding a diagonal cross in the center. She knew it to be St. Andrew with the saltire, and around him, were the words Nemo Me Impune Lacessit. It wasn't art, not in the sense Sokolov referred to it. The object on her was nothing more than that, an object, neither beautiful nor ugly. To her, it meant nothing. It was the madness in which it was created that left her with a deprived, suffocating feeling. He owned this object and he left his energy in it. Sokolov's eyes flashed through her mind as if he were at that exact moment looking into her soul. She averted her gaze and his eyes left. He had left a part of himself in the crest. She piled her long brown hair in a bun and walked into the massive shower, careful of her stomach, and stood under the warm water until it ran cold. When she was finished, she dried herself carefully and went into the bedroom to get some clothes. Gabriel had taken her to high end boutiques which had no meaning of the word comfort. She pulled out a short navy-blue satin nightgown with matching panties and put them on, longing for a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants.

"Ready?" Sin asked, coming in. He held up the vial of ointment. He had taken off his tie and loosened the top buttons on his shirt.

"I can manage." In truth, she wasn't sure she could. The thought of looking at it made her nauseous and she was afraid she would open herself up to Sokolov again. She picked up the roll of medical grade cling form Dr. Forbes had given her, her hands shaking.

Sin took it from her. "Go lie down. Let me help you. It's the least I can do." He went to wash his hands in the bathroom.

Charlotte sat down on the edge of the bed, her heart rate increasing as the memory of him kissing her surfaced. He returned and set the supplies on a black metal nightstand, rolling up his sleeves as she lay back. "I don't want you to be scared of me," he said apologetically. "I'll do my best not to hurt you."

She turned her head to the side, unable to look at him. The steel gray eyes of the man who kidnapped her were gone, replaced by softer eyes filled with worry. He lifted the edge of the nightgown, pulling it up until the expanse of her flat stomach showed. "Jesus fucking Christ." His breath drew in. "What did he do to you?"

She felt her chin begin to tremble and she clenched her jaw; she didn't want to cry in front of him. "I'm fine."

"I'm so sorry, Charlotte." As gentle as possible, he began to apply the ointment to her raw skin.

"Don't. I don't want your pity," she said, sucking in her breath. The ointment stung.

"It's not pity." He used his knuckle to tilt her chin up, so she had to look at him. "Anger at myself for letting it happen."

"What does it mean? The words in Latin."

"Nemo me impune lacessit," he said. "No one provokes me with impunity."

"I knew that," she said, shaking her head. "My mind's been fuzzy. The Cask of Amontillado, it's in Edgar Allen Poe's allegorical short story. What do you think, is it pride or revenge?"

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