Page 40 of Ruined By Blood
Can't even reach for the towel pooled at my feet.
His gaze moves slowly, cataloging each mark—the cigarette burns scattered like constellations across my ribs, the thin white lines from sharp objects.
"I-I thought..." The words stick in my throat.
Enzo doesn't speak. Something flickers across his face. Not disgust or pity, but something darker. His jaw tightens, the muscle there jumping as he clenches his teeth. His eyes travel up to meet mine, and the intensity I find there makes my breath catch.
Without a word, he sets the clothes on the dresser. Then he bends down, picks up my fallen towel, and holds it out to me, his gaze never leaving mine. He's giving me back my dignity while refusing to pretend he didn't see.
My fingers tremble as I reach for the towel, careful not to touch him. The soft fabric feels like armor as I clutch it against my chest.
"Who did this to you?" His voice is dangerously quiet, barely above a whisper.
I shake my head, wrapping the towel tighter around me. "It doesn't matter."
"It matters." Steel underlies his words.
"Why?" I challenge, finding my voice.
Enzo's eyes darken. " To know exactly whose bones to break."
"Please," I whisper, my voice sounding small even to my own ears. "Please just go."
Every inch of my exposed skin burns under his gaze. I want to disappear, to sink through the floorboards and vanish. The weight of his stare is too much—not because it's cruel or hungry like I've known before—but because it's filled with a rage that isn't directed at me.
Enzo stands perfectly still, like a predator assessing his prey. But I'm not what he's hunting. His hands clench and unclench at his sides, the only sign of the storm brewing beneath his controlled exterior.
"Please leave," I say again, stronger this time.
He takes a deep breath, nostrils flaring slightly. When he speaks, his voice is unnervingly calm. "I'll go."
He takes a step back, creating distance between us, but his eyes never leave mine. "But tomorrow, we talk."
I clutch the towel tighter, my knuckles white with tension. "I can't?—"
"You can," he cuts me off. "And you will." There's finality in his tone, not a request but a statement of fact. "Tonight, rest. Tomorrow morning, I'll be waiting downstairs."
Enzo moves toward the door, each step measured and controlled.
The door clicks shut behind him.
I don't move for several long moments, frozen in place. Then my legs give out.
I slide down to the floor, my back against the bed, towel still clutched to my chest. The tears come without warning. Silent at first, then building to shuddering sobs that rack my entire body.
I press my fist against my mouth, trying to muffle the sound. I've spent years teaching myself not to cry, not to make noise, not to show weakness. But here, alone in this room, something inside me cracks open.
He saw. He saw everything.
All the marks I've hidden. All the stories written on my skin in scars and burns. The history of lessons taught through pain, of punishments delivered with methodical cruelty.
My shoulders shake as I draw my knees up to my chest. The tears won't stop. It's like a dam has broken, releasing years of carefully contained emotion.
I haven't cried like this since I learned that my body wasn't my own.
Now I can't stop. The sobs wrench themselves from deep in my chest, tearing through my throat. I rock back and forth, holding myself because no one else ever has.
He saw me. Not just my naked body, but the truth I've been hiding.
