Page 52 of Ricochet

“I’m about ready to crawl right out of my skin.” I lifted a chunk of grease-caked locks plastered to my face. “And my hair is turning … damp.”

He pulled out a bag he had clutched beneath his arm and tossed it onto the bed, the contents inside clattering on impact.

I hesitated a moment before lifting the corner of the bag. A sketchpad and pencils sat inside. “Thank you.”

“C’mon.”

I gathered up his T-shirt and sweats from where I’d tossed them onto the chair and followed him down the hall to what appeared to be his room.

The space was vast, mostly empty but neat, and smelled like his delicious cologne. The furniture inside was darker, the colors more masculine in browns and muted blues. Same dilapidated walls as my room, but somehow cozier.

I pointed to a door across from the bed. “Am I to assume that’s an actual closet?”

“Yep,” he said over his shoulder.

An expansive bathroom, with a frosted glass shower and Jacuzzi tub came into view when he pushed open another door.

Ugh, I’d stay away from the tub.

The small ones were okay, but I had a pretty intense fear of drowning—a weakness that’d always kept me on edge around large bodies of water. Michael had once tied my hands and legs and filled the tub to the level of my chin. When I’d hyperventilated and passed out, almost drowning, he’d realized exploiting that weakness wasn’t worth losing his toy. On another occasion, when I’d tried to escape, he tethered my hands and legs and water-boarded me. I shivered at the memory.

The bathroom was clean and tidy, with a long sink that housed dual faucets, as well as mirrors. God, did I want to see myself?

From a skinny closet, he pulled towels, washcloths—the simple things I’d missed in the last few days.

Without a word, he left the room, closing the door behind him. I didn’t like the haste and the undercurrent of edginess from him. The steady thrum of tension, telling me to keep my distance. Being ignored by Michael was a blessing, but with Nick, it felt like punishment. Only I hadn’t done anything wrong. My gut told me something troubled him.

The way he looked at me had changed, his stare, more intense, as though he studied me at every opportunity. Those eyes made me feel like a specimen, an experiment that’d gone wrong for him. Perhaps my scars had disgusted him as much as they disgusted me.

For the first time in three days, I stood in front of the mirror. Good grief. Much as I wanted to cry, I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. In my tattered dress, with my hair in disarray, and oily complexion, I looked like something straight out of the Stone Age.

I unzipped my dress but held it to my breasts for a moment. What if he had cameras installed in there? Though, really, did I care? If the guy had wanted to rape me, he’d had plenty of chances. My scars wouldn’t have deterred a true rapist—I should’ve known, because they’d never deterred Michael.

Even so, I hesitated to drop my dress. Not out of fear of being seen, but fear of what I’d see. The exposed skin remained intact, flawless as it’d always been. Michael had always been very careful about the wounds he inflicted. Never in the ‘hot zones’ as he called them—the parts that would be visible even in a cocktail dress. The scar on my wrist was the only exception, and I often wore bracelets or other jewelry, keeping my hands crossed to cover it up at formal events—Michael’s rule. It was a scar he hadn’t inflicted, which I think had always bothered him more than the risk of exposure.

Beneath the clothes told the bleak story of my life.

I allowed the dress to fall and stared at the scars reflecting back at me. Two just inside my thighs, the burn marks at my stomach, the slash at my hip that’d had to be stitched. Turning around brought the word that stopped Nick in his tracks into view—carved just above my panty line below a smattering of tiny marks where I’d been whipped too long and too harshly. The dark purple bruises that typically covered my legs and back had faded to yellow. Healing. I wondered what they’d look like once they’d disappeared. Michael had always kept a constant stream of healing bruises. I didn’t know what I looked like without them anymore.

Strange that my captor, the one who’d vowed to kill me the first night, hadn’t laid a single hand on me. Tears welled in my eyes, blurring my vision, and for a brief moment, I couldn’t see any of the scars, until once again, they came into sharp clarity as streams trickled down my cheeks. I’d only cried with the first scars. There, stood beneath the unforgiving lights, parts of me began to heal and my shields began to crumble.

If there was one thing I’d learned in the political game of masks, it was when to crack. Not while lights beat down on my face, or when the city’s finest were asking me what wonderful plans my generous husband had in store. It was when alone in the dark.

I turned off the lights. The window to the left of the toilet faced the shower stall, letting in just enough light to see by while concealing what I wanted to hide.

There was a time I’d feared the dark, but I’d since found comfort in it. Felt protected by it.

I flipped the shower on, and within seconds, steam hit my face, leaving a damp layer across my skin. Once inside, I let out a quiet moan as the warmth of the water beat like fists against my body. Hell, maybe I craved the abuse, because, goddamn, the water’s violence felt good. My knees threatened to give out on me while the heat swarmed me like a blanket.

In the dark, I could crack and crumble, but no matter what, I’d never let the man beyond the door break me. As the spray lashed against my face, washing away the filth, I made a vow in that darkness.

I would never be a victim to anyone again.

CHAPTER 24

Nick

I had no business entering that bathroom. I’d wanted to give her some peace and time to herself. Unfortunately, there was no other way of finding out what size clothes she wore.