He nods. “Did you love him?”
I feared Leader Allen. I despised him. In a sick way maybe there was love too, in the form of necessity. The way you love air, unthinking, because you need it to live. I didn’t fight him when he taught me the divine worship he wanted. Because I had no choice? Or because I was brainwashed? It doesn’t matter. “I don’t regret what happened. It gave me her.”
He leaves the room, and I follow, shutting the door carefully so we don’t disturb her. I’m already schooling my mind to accept whatever happens next. Whatever form of payment Luca desires. It’s not so very different from Leader Allen. I need Luca to survive just as much.
In the luggage I find the white plastic box with FIRST AID written on it. “Let me take care of those cuts for you.”
He gives me a strange look. “They don’t hurt.”
That seems impossible, but then maybe a man as tough as him doesn’t feel pain like regular people. “It’ll get infected.”
After a hesitation he nods. I find a swab of alcohol and tear it from the packet. He stiffens when I approach, and I freeze. It’s like walking up to a dog who’s already bitten, who’ll do it again. But he doesn’t resist when I step close.
My hand reaches up to his neck.
He lowers his head.
The alcohol must sting against the open wounds, but I’m the one who sucks in a breath. Remembered pain. His blood drenches the little square cloth quickly. I work through two more packets before I’m done. He must bleed every time he fights.
“Who does this for you at home? When you fight in the ring?”
His voice has gone low and rough. “No one.”
This close I can feel his breaths against my temple, his heat warming my front. The apartment isn’t that much warmer than out there, especially outside the bedroom, but he feels like a furnace. When I turn away, my breast brushes against his arm. Embarrassment heats my cheeks as I find some antibacterial cream.
He stood still for the sting of the alcohol, but he pulls back from the soothing cream. It surprises me more than him when I give him a stern look. “Hold still.”
His lip curls up in amusement. “Yes, ma’am.”
I use a cotton swab to dab the cream on his cuts. “Thank you.”
He looks at me through slitted eyes, almost slumberous. “Why are you thanking me?”
“You saved me.”
He makes a coarse sound. “You really have no idea, do you?”
I turn away, fussing with the little tube of cream. “What?”
“How many men I’d kill for you.”
My eyes go wide. It’s a horrible measurement, the number of deaths that would be on his hands, the amount of violence he’d commit. And yet it’s a strange comfort too, knowing he would do that for me.
I throw away the bloody pieces and pack up the first-aid kit, using the excuse not to meet his eyes. “When will we go?”
“Tomorrow. Well, today. When you’ve had a chance to rest. I’ll come to the door at noon.”
Then I have to look at him. “Where will you go until then?”
“I’ll sleep in my car.”
“It’s freezing out there!”
“That’s where I slept last night.”
I try not to think about him outside my apartment while I didn’t know. How long has he been in Alaska, waiting for me, watching? And why does the thought make me feel safe instead of scared? “You can stay here.”
His eyes narrow. “With you?”
“I mean it’s nothing comfortable. Just the floor. But there’s a blanket. And basic heating.”
I’m not offering a blanket or heating. His car would probably be more comfortable on both counts. I’m offering my body. Maybe I should fight him, but I’m about to put the life of myself and my daughter into his hands. I want him to be as sympathetic to us as possible.
He studies me. Does he see my fear? My desire to please him? My mind is a mass of scripture notes. Already I’m trying to think of what he’d want. It was one thing when I planned to run away. Now that I’m hitching our fates to his, it’s in my best interest to make him happy.
I dig out the blanket I sleep on, which was rolled up for travel, from my suitcase. Only when I throw it out over the carpet do I realize how pathetic it looks. Sleeping on the floor seems strange to most people, but it’s all I’ve ever done. The few times we stopped at a motel, I could never get comfortable on a bed. I ended up on the floor by the end of the night.
“I hope this is okay,” I whisper, flushed.
His gaze roams past the sad makeshift bed to the corner, where the carpet curls up. To the ceiling, where leaks have turned the white plaster black. “It’s not okay,” he says gruffly.
My hands clench together. “I know Delilah deserves better.”