Chapter 10 #3
Ella is not mine, my brain whispers. She is just a woman who happens to be the definition of a magnitude ten earthquake in my routine, organized, planned-ahead life.
I knew I should not have hired someone else.
I knew I should not have come here. Still, I am here, standing before her as she gently pats my upper cheek, wincing adorably as if she were the one inflicting pain on me, when in fact, I am the one drinking in this moment, selfishly stealing every inch of kindness she grants me.
Not mine. Not mine. Not mine. I could still turn my back on her.
Pretend there is some false reason for me being here.
But watching her little fist curl, chin up, while asking why I hired someone else and demanding that I explain myself, is too good to walk away from.
It has been a decade since anyone stood up to me.
Asked me to explain myself. And her anger is too appealing to tear myself away from.
If I can make her angry, what else can I ignite?
A dangerous box full of ideas opens inside me as she keeps patting the cotton gently over my cheek.
Her breath is fresh and minty, her scent a mixture of lavender and soap that holds my senses hostage, short-circuiting my brain.
With one last gentle move, she leans back, her aura leaving me hungry for more closeness.
Her lips are pink and soft, calling my name in a thousand languages.
“Does it hurt?” she signs, illuminated by the dim light from the standing fixture in the corner behind her. I shake my head.
“How is your hand?”
“Better,” she signs, with a quick upward flick of her hand, her lips forming a straight line as she puts the bloodied cotton pad into a makeshift trash can with its original packaging.
“Show me,” I command, shaking her with my deep voice, causing her to stir on the spot.
She frowns, and I take her hand, palm facing me, studying its every line, pressing her fingers harder than I should, as if I wish I could hold her hand forever and never let go.
She is affected and does not hide it well.
Her breathing quickens, her hand embracing my touch, knuckles unfolding like petals, meeting my careful study.
“Give it a few more days, and it should get better.” Her eyes stare at me, questioning.
“I used to get lots of those when I was younger. That is why I… With time, you get to know your body and how it heals.” I release her hand, even if the motion feels unnatural.
She looks at her palm, running her index finger over the same spot I did, then signs.
“How?”
“Let’s say I had trouble communicating.” Her lips form a small O, and I want to grab her by the waist and pull her to me, marking her neck, her jaw, and her lips with a brand made of madness and ownership.
“Is that why you got this today too?” she signs quickly, forcing me to create connections between words to make sense of it.
I’m fluent in ASL, but I’m nowhere near Maddie and Ella’s approach.
I still translate from English to sign language, whereas she signs with her own syntax, which forces me to read her differently.
I’ll need to work on that. Ella should never feel isolated because of my lack of knowledge. That’s on me.
I barely know her. And still, I feel like I do.
“No. Today was more of an unusual turn of events. I fight in different ways now.” She looks at my hands as I sign, an unreadable shadow crossing her face, tilting her head to the side and revealing, with the light from the lamp in the corner, a red mark on her face.
The dimness kept me from seeing it a few minutes ago, but it is now clear as day.
Ella has been hurt by something. Or someone.
My hand rises to her face, cupping her cheek without asking, the motion urgent and primal, seeking the reassurance of her well-being.
“Who did this to you?” I ask, my calm tone thrown off by waves of wrath.
Her palm covers my hand, our skin coming into contact like wildfires merging at last. Bowing her head, trying to hide herself, she sighs, the sound shaky and tired.
I knew I should not have let her go home by bus.
It is not safe for a young woman, let alone one who cannot scream for help if someone were to attack her.
Is that what happened? Or does she have someone else, someone closer to her, who could be doing this?
From Brenton’s report, she lives with her father, stepmother, and two stepsisters.
Nothing to write home about, despite her father being bedridden and her stepmother being the CEO of a lucrative design firm.
Nowhere in his report did he mention signs of neglect or physical abuse.
I will need to dig deeper. Starting first by answering the question of why such an educated and wealthy girl, one who is supposed to be wearing designer bags and preppy clothes, is working night shifts cleaning offices with torn clothing and a bag with a hole bigger than my fist.
“It’s nothing,” she signs, stepping back, smoothing her white blouse and looking left and right like a caged animal.
“What happened? Ella, why do you have a bruise on your cheek?” I ask, my tone louder, instructing her to answer me despite her reluctance.
“Nothing that concerns you, sir,” she signs. I tilt my head slightly, clenching my jaw.
“Tristan. I asked you to call me Tristan.” She frowns, letting out an exasperated sigh, holding enough insolence to make my hand twitch.
“Not here. It wouldn’t be…”
“Proper?” I catch the end of her sentence, holding her gaze, watching her little chin lift and challenge me to make her use my name with those cherry lips.
No one here, save only Nate, is allowed to call me by my name.
Yet her calling me sir does not sit well with me.
Since our first encounter, she has been building a home inside a room beneath my ribs, expanding her presence with her silent aura and challenging looks.
Not a stranger. Nor my employee. And definitely not my maid anymore. So what is she to me now?
“First, you hire someone else to do my job without even telling me. Then you ask me about my bruises when you will not even share the reason you have yours. I understand getting what you want is your default setting, but…it is not mine,” she signs rather slowly, as if she wants to make sure I catch her meaning.
“I was about to intercept a rather large amount of, um, goods, when an acquaintance made himself known. We had, well, a heated disagreement with how the event was supposed to unfold and he tried to make his point by punching me,” I explain out loud, palms clutching the sides of her body against the desk, gripping the wood hard, diffusing the tension and confusion inside me over why I am explaining anything to her.
I could leave her hanging without a word.
I could inflict on her the violence of mutism, which can somehow be far more painful than words themselves.
But I also want to know what happened to her.
And how I can fix it. Protect. Provide. Two words hammering behind my eyes, with a thick, impossible-to-ignore urge to bare myself to her, honor and dignity be damned, for her to know every corner of my mind.
To seek light in the rotten tapestries below my ribs, in those rooms with no windows where darkness prevails, and perhaps only she could still find something good enough to save there.
Only she could look at all that I am and stay.
“Don’t you have people to protect you?” she signs, waving at the size of my office to make her point.
“I do, but sometimes I have to dirty my hands. There is only so much others can do for me. Sometimes, when you want something done, you have to do it yourself, don’t you agree?
Isn’t why you refused five thousand in cash?
To earn your way honestly?” She blushes, or at least, I think she does, given the lack of light.
“It was a misunderstanding,” she signs. “The mark, it was…” She points at her palm, then swipes the air to her right.
I cover her hands, cutting her off, allowing myself to do so exceptionally for the sake of seeking the truth.
Crimson corners my eyes, bleeding into a screen made of a red frame, covering my reality with madness as I wonder. Who did this?
“Would you like me to lie to you, Ella?” I say, taking my time, waiting for her to see that I, too, can read her.
She shakes her head ever so slightly, catching her lips with her teeth.
“Of course you wouldn’t. Because lying, lying isn’t proper.
Am I right?” There is a long stretch, and she meets my gaze, her long lashes battling, uncovering another side of herself to me, one that understands my danger, one of a deer stepping into a swamp, knowing it could be bitten by a monster lurking in the shadows.
“Then why are you lying to me?” My hand rises, a bold sensation taking over me, fighting the wall of concrete I have built around myself to keep everyone at bay.
My fingers find her chin again, my thumb brushing her lower lip as she parts them, burning brown pools pulling a trigger straight into my composure.
Oh, there she is.
The woman hidden behind the innocent facade.
A strange sense of certainty makes me almost sure that I am the first man on earth to experience this look from her, one she has never given anyone because she did not even know she had it in her.
A terrified, irresistible, spectacularly dangerous gaze.
Ella, what happened to you? Where were you all this time?