Page 20 of Shadows of the Past
“Actually, this is my fourth attempt to wake you up after you told me to leave you alone, thinking I was your mom.”
I see her flush, and now she probably realizes how deeply she was sleeping if she hadn’t already noticed who was yelling at her.
“You’ve got five minutes to get ready, and then we head down to breakfast. Don’t speak, don’t look at anyone, got it?”
I don’t hear her response because I leave the room to let her get ready.
I haven’t even closed the door when I hear a soft “vete a la mierda,” and though she’s cursing me out, I can’t help but smile.
Keep your claws out, wildcat.
Chapter 11
?
Julia
I can’t believe I mistook him for my mom. Diosito, how about you open a hole in the ground so I can crawl in there?
I wish I could have told him why I slept so deeply and felt so relaxed. I’ve been on the road for seven days. Seven days of sleeping with one eye open and one closed, seven days of nightmares about Martin haunting me, seven days of hearing my mom’s scream and seeing the flames engulf the house I grew up in.
And it wasn’t just that. It washim. My body seems to have gotten the message that he’s here to protect us, and every part of me relaxed so much that you could have run a bulldozer over me without me feeling anything.
I quickly slip on a pair of black pants, some sneakers, and a top he left for me and step out of the room.
He’s waiting for me down the hall, typing something on his phone. When he notices me, he says curtly, “Back. We need to take care of something.”
I frown at him but don’t comment. Who knows what his problem is this morning, making him so grumpy. At least he didn’t douse me with the cold water over my head; otherwise, those five minutes would have turned into thirty, given how long it takes me to dry my hair.
As we enter the room, he heads toward one of the nightstands, where he retrieves a toiletry bag filled with creams and...makeup?
“We need to give you some bruises, or they’ll suspect something’s not right.”
His words land heavily on me, confirming once again what kind of madhouse I’m in. Here, if a woman isn’t battered, she’s clearly not doing her job right.
Great.
In ten minutes, my hands are covered with purple bruises, but I notice him frowning.
“What’s wrong?”
He studies me and, without saying a word, places a hand around my neck. For a moment, panic and anxiety surge up through my chest, and all I can think about are Martin’s hands on me.
What is he doing?
I place my hand over his, though aware he’s not pressing down, because I don’t understand what he wants to do.
He pulls out a pencil and gently traces around his fingers, and then it clicks. He wants to draw bruises on my neck that resemble his fingerprints.
As he does this, his scent of rosemary and something woodsy, incense-like, washes over me, and I close my eyes.
It’s just for a moment, but I swear my senses relax just from the presence of these aromas.
When I open my eyes, his gaze meets mine, and it’s impossible not to get lost in his eyes. I don’t think he realizes what a masterpiece they are, and I wish I could memorize them.They are this unique shade of gray, and there’s something warm in them. Something human. Vulnerable.
Physically, I know I can’t offer him any comfort, but I hope my eyes convey how sorry I am for what he’s endured here.
He hasn’t said anything. He hasn’t needed to. The trauma in his eyes is so visible that I feel it weighing on me physically.
