There was a sudden silence.
“How are you?” she asked tentatively. “How’s your back?”
I stiffened immediately.
“Okay,” I lied.
“I doubt it,” she said gently. “Ash, I’m the last person you need to hide pain from.”
My head drooped to my chest at her words, and I threw a quick look over my shoulder to see her staring at me, her eyes flitting over my back, compassion on her face. And I knew she could see the fresh blood that had seeped through my borrowed t-shirt.
“It’s sore,” I admitted. “I’d really like to shower. I need . . . could you help me take off the bandages?”
Laney nodded.
“Of course. Let me just . . . give me a minute, okay?”
She slid into her wheelchair, trying to hide her underwear, but at least she seemed to be moving more easily.
I couldn’t hear the shower running and wondered how she managed things like that, especially when she had . . . what did she call it? A flare-up?
I tugged off my shirt, frowning at the patches of blood. It was worse than I’d thought.
A few minutes later, Laney wheeled herself out again. She took one look at my body and her eyes glazed with tears. I didn’t want her crying over what those bastards had done to me. But she forced herself to speak evenly.
“Okay, let me take a look.”
One by one, she eased the bandages from my skin. I already knew that bruises were coming through as well, and the mirror told me that I was a kaleidoscope of black and purple.
“Can you kneel down so I can reach your shoulders?”
I knelt in front of her, my feet beneath her wheelchair and the backs of my thighs pressed against her knees. Her hands trembled slightly while she worked, but even though her touch was gentle, I couldn’t help hissing with pain, and my muscles twitched under her fingers.
I knew that I’d be permanently marked, carrying the scars forever. I’d never outrun Oleg’s handiwork. Or the sickening memories. If it looked really bad, I might have trouble getting theater work again. People go to see dance to feel good, not to have their stomachs turned by Quasimodo.
There’d be few Paso vests in my future.
Anger and frustration surged inside me: I’d never outrun the Bratva.
I felt Laney’s cool hands on my burning skin. I liked the way she touched me—gentle but not hesitant. She understood pain and wasn’t cowed by it. She didn’t let illness beat her. It didn’t own her. I gritted my teeth: I might be marked, but Sergei was not going to win.
My mind twisted with bitter thoughts of revenge. I’d never held a gun in my life, but I wanted to, very badly.
If the monster was standing in front of me right now, I’d pull the trigger. I could, I knew I could. And I’d feel . . . nothing.
It was as if the intensity of the last few weeks had left my emotional reservoir dry. I felt empty, with nothing inside.
Perhaps I should be worried? Dance was my passion, but it came from inside me. If my passion was gone, what was left?
Even that thought seemed distant and unimportant, as if a pane of glass separated me from viewing this fucked up life.
Then Laney touched a particularly tender spot, and I shuddered, sucking in a breath to keep the pain inside.
“Sorry,” she murmured.
I tensed as she slid the waistband of my sweatpants lower, uncovering the upper curve of my ass as she tried to ease off another bandage. But a very different sensation rushed through my body.
Shit! Not now!
I cupped my hands over my dick, trying to hide the sudden tenting in my pants. Laney didn’t need to see that. She’d think I was some kind of freak who got off on pain.
Then I started to wonder if she could have sex. Would it hurt her? Had she ever?
She had a boyfriend, but that didn’t mean . . .
I pushed the thought away, instead concentrating on counting ceiling tiles.
Thankfully, my erection was mostly gone by the time she finished. Even so, I caught the flush in her cheeks as I turned around. Had she seen?
“I’ll go shower now,” I said, jerking my thumb at the bathroom.
“Wait! I should . . .” Laney stammered helplessly. “I should take a photograph. For evidence.”
My face went blank. “Your friend took a picture. And your phone is dead.”
Then I turned and walked into the bathroom.
I was just a charity case—I wasn’t a man to her.
Laney
I heard the water in the shower and gave myself a mental ticking off.
He’d been brutalized and traumatized. He could be a rape survivor for all I knew.
And not only that, it was hard being near him, touching him intimately. Ash was just so . . .
Then I felt guilty about Collin. Sort of. We were broken up, weren’t we? He’d never replied to my last text—well, not that I knew of.
My feelings for Ash were confusing. I wanted to help him, to take care of him, save him even. But I was attracted to him, as well. Those feelings weren’t wrong . . . unless I acted on them.
I sighed.