Chapter 10 Samira
Samira
Tone wrapped the towel around my shoulders, firm but careful, like she was afraid I might shatter if she pulled too hard.
The fabric was thick and warm. It smelled faintly of soap and lavender. Clean. Safe. A smell that didn’t belong to alleyways or fear.
Her hands trembled as she tucked the edges around me.
“You did good, sweetheart,” she murmured softly, her voice steady even if her fingers weren’t. “Let’s get you dressed.”
I nodded. It was the only response I had left. My voice was gone. My sight was gone.
The world had become a black wall I kept walking into, and every step felt like I might fall straight through it.
Tone moved slowly, narrating everything she did before she did it.
“I’m going to lift your arm,” she told me, her voice gentle, soothing.
Her hand slid gently beneath my elbow, raising it gently.
“Good. Now the other one.”
She slipped the shirt over my head. The fabric was cotton—soft, worn in a way that told me it had been washed a hundred times. It brushed my skin without scratching, and I clung to that sensation like it mattered.
Because right now, the small things were the only things that felt real.
“I’m helping you step into some pants,” she continued. “One foot at a time.”
I lifted my leg when she guided it.
The world swayed for a moment.
Tone’s grip tightened immediately.
“I’ve got you.” Her voice was low and reassuring. “There’s no rush.”
Her calm steadied me. Every word she spoke gave me something to hold onto in the dark.
When she finished dressing me, she adjusted the shirt gently across my shoulders, smoothing the fabric like a mother might.
“Okay,” she breathed after a moment, her tone shifting slightly. “We’re going to step back into the hallway now.”
She paused.
“Marcello’s out there.”
My heart reacted instantly. A small, traitorous shift in my chest.
His name stirred something in me I didn’t want to examine too closely. Something grounding, solid. It irritated me that it did. He was a stranger.
Worse than that, something in his voice—something in the way he moved through the world—told me he carried darkness like it was stitched into his bones.
Men like him didn’t save people. Men like him caused the damage. And yet…
The moment Tone cracked the bathroom door open, I felt him.
It was subtle. But unmistakable.
The air changed. A stillness settled in the hallway, heavy and watchful. Like the room itself had noticed him.
Tone’s hand rested on my elbow as she guided me forward.
“Small step,” she murmured.
I obeyed automatically.
“You doing okay?” she asked gently.
I nodded again, though I wasn’t sure it was true.
The moment my foot crossed the threshold, something in the space shifted.
A soft inhale reached me.
Him.
Marcello didn’t speak. But I could picture it anyway. The way he was probably standing there, watching me. Measuring. Taking in the damage.
I wondered what he saw.
A stranger in his house. A woman he knew nothing about, now residing in his private world. The thought pressed against my spine like heat.
This—this strange, fragile moment in a hallway—was the most kindness I had experienced in a long time. And it was coming from someone I didn’t even know.
“Samira.”
His voice finally broke the silence. Just my name. Nothing else.
It shouldn’t have calmed me. But somehow it did.
I tilted my head slightly toward the sound. Even without sight, his presence filled the hallway—broad and controlled, like the walls themselves adjusted around him.
“You look better,” he said, his voice low.
There was something restrained in the way he spoke his words. As if he were trying to reassure himself.
I guessed anyone would look better once the blood had been washed away.
Tone squeezed my arm gently.
“I’m going to get some warm tea started for you. Something gentle on the stomach.”
She paused.
Then her tone sharpened, the next words clearly aimed at the other person in the room.
“And you—don’t hover.”
A low grunt answered her. Marcello.
“I don’t hover,” he muttered.
Tone snorted softly.
“You absolutely do.”
Her footsteps retreated down the hallway.
“Tone,” he sounded irritated.
“You’re hovering right now,” she called back without missing a beat.
A cabinet door opened somewhere in the distance. Then closed.
Silence settled again. Only this time it was thicker. Heavier.
A man stood somewhere too close. Too intense to ignore.
I swallowed and lifted my hand cautiously, trying to find the wall so I could orient myself.
The darkness around me felt endless.
My fingers moved slowly through the air—before they brushed against something warm.
Skin.
Marcello’s hand closed gently around mine.
Not tight. Not possessive. Just enough to guide.
He moved my hand a few inches to the side until my palm found the wall.
Then he released me immediately.
Like the contact had burned.
“Careful,” he warned. “The hallway’s narrow.”
His voice had changed. Lower. More controlled. Like he was forcing himself to remain calm.
I nodded and slid my hand along the wall. The plaster was cool beneath my fingertips.
I took a cautious step forward. My legs felt weak. Unreliable.
The darkness made the floor feel uneven even though I knew it probably wasn’t.
Behind me, Marcello exhaled slowly.
“You’re… small.”
The words slipped out of him in a steady but surprised tone. Like he had just noticed. I wasn’t sure what to do with that observation. So I kept walking. I had never thought of myself as small. But I also had no idea how large he was. And size, I had learned, was often a matter of perspective.
His footsteps followed. Close enough that I felt the warmth of him behind me. Far enough that he didn’t crowd.
I gripped the wall harder. My fingers trembled.
“Samira,” he spoke again.
I turned my head slightly toward the sound.
“If you feel unsteady,” he continued, his tone low, “tell me.”
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Not even a whisper.
His breath caught. The sound was sharp—frustrated. Not at me. At himself. At the situation.
“You’ll get your voice back.”
There was steel in the words. He sounded adamant and more convinced than I allowed myself to be.
“Your sight, too.”
A small pause followed.
“This isn’t permanent.”
I didn’t know if he believed that. Or if he was lying for my sake. But right then, I needed something solid to hold onto. And his voice—steady and unwavering in the darkness—was the only thing that felt real.
From somewhere down the hall, Tone’s voice called out.
“Tea’s ready!”
Marcello stepped back slightly.
Giving me space again.
“Come on,” he murmured.
His voice softened.
“Slow and steady.”
A pause. Then he offered to lead the way.
And in the dark, with only his voice guiding me through a hallway I couldn’t see and a gentle hand at my elbow, it felt like the first piece of safety I’d had in my life.
So I followed.