And I find myself remembering how she felt beneath me.
No, not a girl anymore.
Her body, the softness, the curves, those of a woman. But still too young for the things she’s seen. For the things she’s experienced.
I move closer and slip one arm around her shoulders, the other behind her knees. She smells like me. My shampoo. My soap. My aftershave.
She startles, her eyes fluttering open, her back going stiff. One hand comes to my chest, and she pushes readying to fight, eyes suddenly wide with panic.
“Waiting up for me?” I ask, and she realizes where she is.
Her body relaxes. She blinks, shifts her gaze away. She’s stubborn. Good. It’s probably one of the things that’s kept her alive so long. Kept the fight from going out of her.
I hold her tighter, carry her to my bed. The blanket drops to the floor. My sweater has ridden up, so I catch a glimpse of her panties. Just white cotton. Plain. But not. Not at all. Not on her.
And why the fuck am I thinking this? Am I looking at her like this?
When I meet her eyes, I find them on me. She saw me looking. I clear my throat and tug the blanket up to cover her.
She takes it, adjusts it.
“You smell like a bar,” she says.
“Perceptive,” I tell her as I walk toward the bathroom. I need to piss. I see the hole on the door where the doorknob used to be. Fucking Matthaeus. He’s nothing if not thorough. “So, were you?” I call into the room.
“Was I what?”
“Waiting up for me.”
“No,” she calls back, her tone defensive.
“Little liar.” I chuckle.
I lift the toilet seat and piss, flush, then wash my hands, unable to avoid looking at my face in the mirror as I do.
Dante didn’t look like you.
The shadow of my smile vanishes. No, he did not. But Dante, the boy is gone. Long gone. He was gone before Cristiano ever woke up. He died the day I walked into my house and found my family massacred. The only thing that saved me at all was finding Cristiano still breathing, still fighting for his life.
I bend to splash water on my face not wanting to see this man’s face. A monster’s face. I’m not sure how she can stand to look at me. I switch off the bathroom light and stalk back across the room to find her sitting up watching me.
“What?” I ask, moving toward the bed.
“Are you drunk?”
I slip the holster off my shoulder, keep the gun inside and set it on the makeshift nightstand.
“Not drunk enough.” I am about to take off the patch. I do when I sleep. But I think better of it. I reach back to pull my shirt over my head and drop it on the floor. It stinks of this too-long day. I then undo my jeans.
“What are you doing?” she asks, pulling the duvet closer.
I pause, look at her. “Not playing twenty questions.” I push my jeans off. She gasps but I catch her looking before she makes a show of turning away.
“Don’t worry, I won’t take the briefs off, and I won’t touch you.”
She turns back to me as I pull the blanket up and get into the bed. “You’re sleeping here?”
“It’s my bed.”
She pushes the blanket away and swings one leg out, but I catch her wrist.
“You’ll stay.”
“I’ll sleep somewhere else, thank you.”
“It wasn’t a question and I’m fucking tired so lie down and go to sleep and don’t make me fucking chase you around the apartment.”
“Why?”
I lie down on my back but keep her wrist in my hand. It’s tiny. I stare up at the ceiling “Because I didn’t child-proof it.”
“What does that mean?”
I turn my head to look at her. “You cut your hair.”
She reaches up with her free hand and touches it. I see her hesitate.
“I like it,” I say. “Now lie down and go to sleep. You’re safe from me.”
“What do you mean you didn’t child-proof it? I’m not a child.”
I let my gaze drop to her chest where the too big sweater exposes skin, the soft swell of one breast. “No, you’re not. But after today’s escapades and until I can trust you, you’ll be supervised by myself or Matthaeus.”
She seems to accept this and lies down. I still don’t let go of her wrist.
“Why did you come for me?” she asks after so long I wonder if she hasn’t fallen asleep.
“I told you that. You just don’t want to believe it.”
“He’s going to kill you when he finds you.”
I look over to find her staring up at the ceiling, her profile outlined by the cool light reflecting off the fallen snow.
“Is that what you’re scared of?” I ask her. “Or just plain scared?”
She doesn’t shift her gaze and doesn’t answer right away. I watch a tear slide down over her temple. “Both.”