Page 59 of Heal Me

Vulnerability flushes over me. And gratitude. I don’t know how, but Dorin has come to read me with scary precision. I often don’t even have to use the notepad when I need something, and often, Dorin predicts my needs before I even know them myself. Even though I try to hide the constant grief, he can tell when it’s about to get the better of me, taking me in his arms and whispering soothing words until I let go and let the hurt flow freely in the safe embrace of his arms.

“Open,” Dorin repeats, nodding to the box.

Lifting my hands, I carefully open the top and lean in to see what’s inside. My breath stops when I see a black case hidden beneath layers of paper.It can’t be.Pulling the wrapping aside, I see the shape of the case. Wide and rounded at one end, long and narrow at the other. My hand flies to my mouth, and I shake my head as I lift my eyes to Dorin.

It can’t be. Pinch me.

“A violin,” he confirms, and tears spring to my eyes at the confirmation.

I reach my hands into the box but pull them back out, feeling like there’s a catch. A price to pay.

Reading my reaction, he says, “It’s for you. You may use it whenever and however much you like. It doesn’t come at a cost. I’m not Zoltan.” His eyes darken. “I’m never gonna put a price on your happiness.”

His words have me reaching for the notepad as a surge of fear rises within me. I had all but forgotten about Zoltan trying to buy me, too ridden with grief—too numb—to do anything other than take one day at a time.

Where is he?I scribble and hold the paper up briefly.Will he come for me here? Am I safe here?

I know Dorin must have somehow overturned the sale, and I trust that he’ll do everything in his power to keep me safe, but I also know the kind of resources and reach Zoltan has.

Darkness sweeps across Dorin’s features. “That man isnevergoing to touch you again.”

How?I write, the huge letters filling half the page. I show them to Dorin, then rip the page off to start on a fresh one.You don’t know him. He’ll come for me. He has—

Dorin grabs my hand, stopping me mid-sentence.

“Iknow,” he says fiercely. “He’s here. In a cell. Begging for his momma.”

I give a confused shake of my head.

“Don’t you remember the promise I made? That I’ll kill him?”

Biting my lips together, I nod slowly.

“That promise still stands. But I’m taking my time. I want him to suffer for what he did to you.”

The snarl forming on his lips as he says the wordsufferalmost makes me draw back. But I know Dorin. So I lean forward instead, grabbing on to his T-shirt as my heart pounds with a speed that makes the world whir around me. I sit there for several minutes, feeling the steady thuds of his heart and letting it be the beat that grounds me.

When my own heart settles in a regular rhythm, I lean back to write again.What have you done to him?

“Are you sure you want to know?” he asks, brows furrowing in a grave expression.

I need to know,I write. I look toward the window for a moment, then continue.I want to see.

Dorin sighs. “It’s not a pretty sight. I’ve cut off most of his fingers, taken one of his eyes, and he’s coming down with a severe infection in one of his legs.”

I underline the last four words I wrote and hold the notepad up, tapping against them to convey how much I need this. Zoltan has been a constant fear gnawing at the back of my mind, biting deep into my bones, ever since I fled from him. I need to know that I no longer have to fear him.

“Okay,” he relents with a sigh. “I’ll take you to see him. But first, I want you to open your present.”

Gently, I reach down and take the violin case in my hands. A surge of something powerful rushes through me as I bring it into my lap and pop the clasps open. Closing my eyes, I lift the lid, still unable to believe I’ll find a real violin in there.

Time slows as I open my eyes and see a beautiful, shiny violin. I just stare at it. The polished wood, the taut strings, and the elegant curve of the body. I haven’t touched a violin for years. I don’t even know if I remember how to play anymore.

Dorin seems to be holding his breath when I glance up at him.

“Play for me,” he says, his breathy voice full of hope.

Carefully, I wrap my fingers around the neck and lift the instrument out of its case. A shuddery breath escapes me as I rest it on my shoulder. Plucking two strings at a time, I listen to the soft vibrations as I tune them. Then I pick up the bow, and time comes to a standstill as I hover it right above the strings.

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