Twenty-Nine: Scars and Silence

Twenty-Nine: Scars and Silence

Zacian POV

I woke up to the sound of silence.

It wasn't the silence of an empty house, which I was used to. It was the silence of a held breath. The penthouse felt different. Smaller. Clogged with the scent of vanilla and something soft, like wildflowers, that was definitely her.

I sat up, swinging my legs over the edge of the couch. My back cracked, a reminder that I wasn't twenty anymore. Sleeping on a sofa, even a leather one worth five grand, wasn't ideal. I scrubbed a hand over my face, the stubble rough against my palm.

Across the room, the bed was a mountain of silk and duvet. Cecilia was buried in the center, a lump under the covers, only a spill of strawberry blond hair visible against the dark pillows.

I stared at her for a minute, just watching the rhythmic rise and fall of her shoulder.

She was a problem.

In the twenty-four hours since I’d dragged her out of that warehouse, she’d done everything but cower. She’d sassed me, defied me. Looked at me with those big, defiant eyes like she was sizing me up for a slaughter rather than thanking me for saving her life. Most women in her position—sheltered, rich, soft—would have been weeping hysterics by now.

Not Cecilia.

She had fire. A spitfire attitude that should have annoyed the shit out of me, but instead... it had me hard as a rock half the time. When she’d leaned over the dinner table last night, chin lifted, throwing that "pain in the ass" comment in my face? I’d wanted to bend her over the table and fuck the attitude right out of her.

God, the things I’d imagined doing to her since the gala. *I’d spent nights picturing that smart mouth wrapped around my cock, wondering if she’d keep that defiant look in her eyes while she choked on me. I imagined tying her to my bed, not with chains, but with silk, making her beg for the release she pretended she didn't want.*

It was evocative. Arousing. It reminded me of why I’d noticed her at the gala in the first place. She wasn't just another pretty socialite. She had teeth.

But she was also a Henderson. Dominic's daughter. The thought was a cold bucket of water on my lust. She was leverage. A tool to dismantle a man who had it coming. I couldn't afford to find her defiance charming. I needed to break it, or at least redirect it.

Still, as I stood up and stretched, I couldn't deny the urge to go over there and check on her. Harlan had cleared her, but the electrocution wasn't a joke. It played tricks on the body.

I walked to the bed quietly. "Cecilia."

She didn't stir.

I reached out, intending to shake her shoulder, but my hand paused. The skin of her shoulder was exposed where the duvet had slipped down. It was pale, smooth, unblemished except for a faint, angry red line near her collarbone.

Wait.

I frowned, leaning closer. It wasn't a line. It was a stain.

I hooked my finger in the edge of the silk sheet and pulled it back.

My gut twisted.

The white silk of her nightgown was stained with a small, dark circle of red right over her ribs. And on the sheet beneath her, a smear of dried rust.

"Son of a bitch," I growled.

I grabbed her shoulder and shook her, harder this time. "Cecilia. Wake up."

She jolted, a gasp tearing from her throat as she thrashed, her eyes flying open. Wild. Panic-filled.

"Get off!" she shouted, swinging a small fist at me.

I caught her wrist easily, pinning it to the mattress. "Easy. It's me."

She froze, her chest heaving, her eyes darting around the room before landing on my face. The recognition slowly bled in, replacing the terror with a scowl. She tried to yank her hand back, but I didn't let go.

"You're bleeding," I said, my voice flat.

"What?" She looked down at herself, following my gaze. Her face paled when she saw the spot on her nightgown. "Oh."

"Oh?" I let go of her wrist and reached for the hem of her dress. "Lift your arms."

She slapped my hands away, her jaw setting in that stubborn line I was already learning to hate. And love. "I'm fine. It's nothing. Just... just a scratch."

"It's not a scratch, Cecilia. It's blood. On my sheets. Lift the damn dress."

"No," she said, crossing her arms over her chest and wincing as the movement pulled at her side. "I handled it last night. I cleaned it. It's just... tender."

"Tender?" I scoffed. "You're leaking like a stuck pig. Don't make me rip it off you."

"Try it and you lose a hand," she hissed, her eyes flashing.

I stared at her. She was sitting there, pale as a sheet, bleeding through her clothes, and still threatening me. It was the most ridiculous, infuriating thing I’d ever seen.

And god help me, it made my cock twitch.  *I wanted to seize that stubborn jaw of hers in my iron grip, wrenching her mouth wide open so I can ram my throbbing cock down her throat, drowning out her sassy screams with the relentless thrust of my hips. I craved the sight of her lips stretching around my shaft, her tongue lashing futilely as saliva spills from the corners of her mouth, her eyes bulging while she gags on every inch I force inside.* 

"You have a death wish," I said, my voice dropping. "I'm trying to help you, you stubborn brat."

"I don't need your help," she shot back, though her voice trembled slightly. "I just need you to leave me alone so I can go back to sleep."

"Not happening."

I didn't give her a chance to argue. I grabbed the hem of her nightgown and shoved it up.

"Zacian! Stop!"

She fought me, her nails scraping against my wrists, but I was bigger, stronger, and fueled by a sudden, blinding rage at those I’d hired to do this to her. But also at her for letting it get this bad.

I got the silk bunched up under her armpits, exposing her torso.

My breath hissed through my teeth.

There were no bandages.  It was obvious she had peeled them off the night before in the shower. The skin underneath was a mess. The burns were deeper than they looked yesterday, angry blisters forming around the edges where the electricity had exited her body. The scabs had cracked open during the night, oozing fresh blood and clear serum that had dried into a sticky, crusty mess against her ribs. The surrounding skin was angry and inflamed, hot to the touch.

"Jesus," I muttered.

I looked at her face. She had turned her head away, squeezing her eyes shut, her lip caught between her teeth as she attempted to shield her breasts under the bunched material with her arms. She was embarrassed.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked, my voice softer than I intended.

"Because I didn't want you to make a big deal out of it," she whispered. "Because I didn't want you to see me like this."

"Like what? Hurt?"

"No. Broken."

The word hung there, heavy and fragile.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "I'm going to get the med kit. Don't move. If you get out of this bed, I will chain you to it. I'm not joking."

I didn't wait for her answer. I stormed into the bathroom, yanking open the cabinet under the sink. I grabbed the kit—alcohol, gauze, tape, antibiotic ointment.

When I came back, she hadn't moved. She was lying there, staring at the ceiling, her nightgown still rucked up around her chest. She looked small. Defeated.

It didn't suit her.

I sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. I set the kit down and opened the alcohol bottle.

"This is going to sting," I warned her.

"I know," she said tightly.

I peeled the old bandages away. They stuck to the dried blood, pulling at the raw skin. She hissed, her back arching off the bed, her hands fisting in the sheets.

"Easy," I murmured, my other hand coming up to rest on her stomach, holding her down. "Breathe."

 Most people would have been screaming by now, begging for mercy, tears streaming down their face. But not her. She just lay there, jaw clenched, taking it. She was tough. Resilient. A hell of a lot tougher than she looked. It was sexy as fuck, seeing that kind of grit wrapped up in such a delicate package. It made me want to see what else she could handle.

My mind drifted, unbidden, to images of her in my dungeon. *Restrained, taking pain of a very different kind. I wondered if she’d blush that pretty pink when I used a crop on her ass, or if she’d glare at me the whole time, daring me to make her safeword.*

The blood seeping from the open, raw skin made me wince for her. It looked painful as hell. My anger flared again. My own men. The bastards I hired to grab her. They were dead men walking. But so was I. I stood there and watched it happen. I let them turn the dial up, let them think they had carte blanche to break her just to send a message to Dominic. I gave the order, or at least, I didn't stop it. That was on me. I had marked her, scarred her. No one touched what was mine and got away with it, not even me. And whether she liked it or not, she was mine now.

I poured the alcohol over a clean pad.

"Ready?"

"Just do it," she gritted out.

I pressed the pad to the wound.

She cried out, a sharp, broken sound, and her body bowed up, her stomach pressing against my hand. Her skin was hot, soft, trembling. I could feel the muscles quivering beneath my palm.

"Hold still," I ordered, my voice rough.

I cleaned the wound, wiping away the blood and the pus. She was panting, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, but she didn't beg me to stop. She just took it, her teeth gritted, her face pale.

I was impressed even more. Most grown men would have been screaming by now.

I applied the ointment, my fingers sliding over the heated skin. It was intimate. Too intimate. I was touching her, really touching her, not just grabbing her to move her, or change her clothes. Her skin was like silk, scorched and fragile.

I felt a strange tug in my chest, something protective and violent all at once. I wanted to kill everyone who had ever hurt her. I wanted to wrap her up and hide her from the world until she was whole again.

It was a dangerous thought. A distraction.

I quickly taped the fresh gauze in place, smoothing it down with efficient movements. I pulled her nightgown back down, covering her up.

"Done," I said, sitting back.

She let out a long breath, her eyes opening. They were wet, shining in the morning light. She looked at me, and for a second, the walls were down. The defiance was gone, leaving just the girl underneath.

"Thanks," she whispered.

"Don't thank me," I said, standing up and stripping off my gloves. "Just don't hide this shit from me again. If you're hurt, you tell me. I can't fix it, if I don't know about it."

"I'm not your pet," she growled back, her voice gaining a little strength. "You don't get to fix me."

"No," I said, looking down at her. "You're my responsibility. And right now, you're a liability. I don't like liabilities."

Her jaw tightened, the fire flashing back in her eyes. "I'm not a liability. I'm a person."

"You're a person with a target on her back," I countered. "And if you die on my watch, it looks bad for business."

"Liar," she said softly.

I paused. "What?"

"You're not doing this for business," she said, sitting up slowly, clutching the duvet to her chest. "You could have left me in that warehouse. You could have let me die. But you didn't. You killed them. You brought me here. You're fixing my bandages. Why?"

I stared at her. Why?

Because the thought of her broken body in that warehouse made me want to tear the city apart.

Because she looked at me like she wasn't afraid.

Because she was the only thing in this godforsaken city that felt real.

"Because I can," I said finally, turning away. "Get some rest. And stay in bed. I mean it."

I walked out of the room, closing the door behind me.

I leaned back against the wood, closing my eyes, my heart hammering against my ribs.

She was right. It wasn't just business.

And that was the biggest problem of all.