Chapter 17
Imogen
The warm water pelts against my back. It loosens the taut muscles but doesn’t unravel the myriad of emotions conflicting within me.
Shades of crimson swirl to the drain along with the body matter of the men Rico killed.
Even living in this dark world death isn’t something I’m desensitized to. It should strike the fear of god in me how callously and easy it was for him to do. Yet I thank god for him doing so.
At least I can find comfort in the fact that my death truly does belong to him. He didn’t lie about that. Somehow it makes it easier to breathe. While under captivity I won’t be subjected to cruelty. A silver lining I suppose.
Not that my pa cares.
I bite my knuckle to suppress the sudden urge to cry.
A pain flares violently in my heart.
I know the crime family means a great deal to him but to learn I mean so little is crushing.
My life was in a fucking game of Russian Roulette and not once did he try to save me.
But the man who is my enemy did.
My life meant more to him than it did my own pa.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to reconcile. Before with forcing me with the wedding I would have held my grievances, but maybe I could have moved past it. Maybe we could’ve passed it. I don’t know. But I know now how much I truly mean to him.
Consumed with devastation I slide down the shower wall and pull my knees close to my chest. I wrap my arms around my legs tightly.
Maybe, just maybe if I physically hold myself I can keep it together.
Except ma’s face flashes before my eyes. How she looked so scared. Broken. Utterly shattered beyond repair.
The first sob wracks my entire frame with a silent cry. The next comes out as a piercing wail. My ears ring. My lungs burn. But the shrill of heartbreak and sorrow morphs into something more catastrophic. There’s an intense need to destroy everything. It rises within me like a volcano.
And I. . .erupt.
My fist strikes against the glass shower pane. At first all it does is bruise my knuckles and vibrate up my arm from the impact.
But I hit it again.
And again.
And again.
Skin busted with blood running down my arm, I hit it once more, numb to the pain. Glass shatters like pouring rain. It all comes down at once.
Heavy footsteps come fast from down the hall. It really shouldn’t be but I feel him before I even see him. The awareness causes the fine hairs on the back of my neck to stand. Goosebumps despite the hot water appear. And my damn heart pounds like a sledgehammer.
He enters the en-suite slowly, cautiously. I sit in my destruction. His eyes roam over me first but not in a lustful way. There’s no heat in his gaze. They’re inspecting. Moving over me clinically to assess the harm I’ve done.
“Gazzella.” The softness in his tone is a shock to my system. “Don’t move,” he instructs.
I want to defy him. Walk across the shards of glass in spite. Spit in his face and dare him to order me once more.
Except I don’t.
He crouches down in front of me and turns the water off. His eyes seek mine. I’m only able to hold his gaze for so long.
Gently, he scoops me up in his arms, careful to not touch me inappropriately. Mindful of the glass he avoids it as best as he can. Then he places me on the double vanity counter.
I watch as he retrieves a towel from the closet along with a few other things. Once he sets them down he lifts my arms. I keep them there as he wraps the fluffy white towel around my body and tucks the remaining cloth at the center of my breasts to keep hold.
Turning on the faucet he waits for the water to get warm before placing the hand towel beneath it.
He shuts the water off, wrings the hand towel and comes to stand in front of me.
“This will sting,” he says. I wince as he places the cloth over my busted knuckles and sliced skin. “You’re doing well, Imogen,” he praises me. After cleaning the wounds he brings both of my hands at eye level. “Ever had stitches before?” I shake my head. “I’ll try to be as gentle as possible.”
After cleaning the area again he begins to stitch the top of my hand. I remain statuesque. Only wincing every so often. Each time that I do he becomes more gentle.
In another world I would appreciate his attentiveness.
In this one it burns. My enemy is bestowing upon me kindness and care that my own pa didn’t.
God, I will never be able to erase that. The way he continues to harper on about Niall but doesn’t see that I’m still here. His vengeance makes him blind. And not only has it affected me, it's affecting ma, too. My beautiful kind hearted selfless ma.
“There,” he says as he does the final stitch. I glance down to find perfect work.
And there’s something about the way his thumb ghosts over the stitches in a way of comfort that makes me more vulnerable than I was when he arrived.
“He didn’t care.” My voice cracks. I swallow but the lump doesn’t dissipate. If anything it feels larger than ever. “There were guns to my fucking head. Each one clicking and he. Didn’t. Fucking. Care.”
Tears blur my line of vision once more. And I hate what I’m becoming. A girl whose only response is to cry.
Face crestfallen I look to the only person I can for comfort. And I hate that it’s him. The man who put me in this predicament. The man who revealed my pa’s true nature. “Why didn’t he care?”
He doesn’t say anything. Truth be told I don’t expect him to.
Then, unexpectedly, he awkwardly places one hand on the back of my head to cradle my scalp. The other arm bands around my lower back.
Despite his stiffness I allow myself to melt into him. My cheek rests against the hard plane of his chest. I close my eyes as another damn tear falls.
But it’s the steadiness of his heart beats and the evenness of his breaths that calms me.
“I’ve come to discover seeing you in pain leaves me feeling heavily unsettled.
” I don’t speak, too stunned that he even admitted such a thing.
In what world does a captor care for his captive?
And in the vulnerable state I’m in I crave it.
I wonder if he knows that. If this is some tactic only to weaken my defenses.
“I don’t understand it myself. Before I had no care either way.
But you,” he pauses, trying to find the right words. “I don’t like seeing you in pain.”
My mouth opens to rebuttal with a snarky reply. But it dies on my tongue when I realize he’s genuinely concerned. “I didn’t mean to hurt myself.”
“I know,” he says softly. Then, he releases me. His absence creates a coldness that reaches my bones. “Do you want to talk about it?”
My brows shoot to my hairline. “Talk about it?”
He nods his head. “In numerous studies it shows talking about what is bothering you leads to success in help of relieving the high intensity emotions. It allows for the person to reflect and be heard.”
I stare at him dumbfounded. “My captor wants to play my therapist?”
“Not exactly,” he murmurs. “I’m certain I’d make a terrible one.”
“Why are you being kind?”
“Do you think I’m incapable?”
“Forgive me, but I just can’t seem to understand you,” I say.
His lips draw slightly downward. “I don’t even understand myself.”
“You’ve said that before.” I point out.
“I have,” he agrees. “But I know right from wrong, Imogen. I’m aware of morals and values. I understand the complexity of mankind. I only have a hard time placing emotion with it. You could say I lack empathy.”
“That can’t be true,” I argue. “You must have some empathy towards me. Or you wouldn’t care at all. I would just be another captive who you would be doing the bare minimum for to survive another day until my pa agrees to your demands.”
A ghost of a smile graces his lips. And I curse every single person who has called this man cold. In the short span of time with me he’s proven he’s not. There’s warmth there. Albeit small but there.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he says.
Remembering I’m half naked I clutch the towel around me tighter. “Thank you,” I say in a small voice.
His only reply is a slight nod.
“I’m sorry about destroying your shower.”
“Are you really?”
I bite back a smile. “No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
Hands in his pockets he begins to leave. I eye the destruction that still litters the floor. “Hey!” He pauses. “How about carrying me out of here?”
Turning he says, “Ah, so now you want to be carried.”
I raise my brow. “I thought you didn’t like seeing me in pain?”
“Fair point. But I distinctly remember you saying you’re perfectly capable of walking” He shoves my words down my throat and forces me to swallow.
“Rico.”
“Imogen.” He copies my tone.
“Carry me out of here.” Easily he lifts me in his arms once more. This time I didn't protest.
Carefully walking around the shattered glass he proceeds to carry me to the bed. Before placing me on it he pulls back the duvet. He kneels down beside me as he tucks me in, ensuring the duvet covers me up to my shoulders. And the simple act of care flays me open.
“Sleep,” he says softly. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“Don’t lie to me, Rico. You said you don’t lie.”
His finger hovers over my brow bone as if he wants to relax the tension there. “I’m trying to offer you comfort.”
“Offer it by promising me something else.”
“What would you like me to promise you?”
“Something true.”
The muscle in his jaw ticks. His brows knit together. “I promise you this, la mia gazzella, no more harm will come to you.”
“So, you won’t kill me just yet?”
“No,” he breathes. “Frankly, I don’t even think I want to.”
My mind a little more at ease I nod my head. I’m trusting the enemy once more. Handing him the knife and hoping he doesn’t stab me. My eyes flutter shut and I can feel him staring. He’s always staring. “Goodnight, Rico.”
His finger finally makes contact with my skin. The pad of his thumb brushes over the cupid's bow of my lip. Everything within me burns. “Goodnight, Imogen.”