Page 42 of Ruined By Blood
In the mirror, my reflection stares back with red-rimmed eyes. I look away quickly. I can't bear to see the damage, to remember how Enzo's eyes traced each scar, each burn mark.
I pull on the sweater, letting it fall over my body like armor. The leggings follow, and I find myself grateful for the coverage, for the barrier between my marked skin and the world.
A tear escapes, sliding down my cheek before I can stop it. I wipe it away furiously.No more crying. I command myself.
It doesn't help. It never has.
But another tear follows, then another. I press my palms against my eyes, willing the moisture to stop. Seven years of practice hiding tears from my father, and now they betray me when I need composure most.
I force deep breaths into my lungs. In through the nose, out through the mouth. A technique I taught myself at fourteen, when crying became dangerous.
Sleep had finally claimed me somewhere in the early morning hours, after I'd run out of tears. Now they're back. I have to pull myself together before facing Enzo. Before the conversation he insisted we have.
What will I tell him? How much is safe to reveal? Every instinct screams at me to run, but there's nowhere to go. And part of me—a small, traitorous part—doesn't want to run from him.
I splash cold water on my face, erasing the tear tracks. My eyes still look red, but maybe he won't notice. Maybe he won't look at me with that intensity that seems to see everything I try to hide.
I run a brush through my hair, one more defensive layer. I used to hide behind it as a child, creating a curtain between myself and my father's anger. Old habits.
You survived worse.I tell my reflection.
You can survive this conversation.
But that's the thing about survival. It doesn't mean you emerge unscathed. Sometimes survival leaves marks. Scars. Evidence that you endured, but at a cost.
I take one final deep breath and straighten my spine. Shoulders back. Chin up. Face neutral. The mask I've perfected since childhood slides into place. A little cracked now, but still functional.
He wants answers. He's sheltering me, protecting me. I owe him something in return, even if giving it feels like peeling off my own skin.
I reach for the door handle, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. Before I can change my mind, I open it and step into the hallway.
Time to face Enzo Feretti.
The hallway stretches before me, quiet except for my shallow breathing and the soft padding of my feet against hardwood. Morning light fills the cabin, illuminating dust motes that dance in golden shafts between windows. April sunshine has a different quality than winter light—warmer, more hopeful. Not that hope has ever served me well.
When I reach the living room, Enzo is already there. He leans against the kitchen counter, dark hair still damp from a shower, wearing a black t-shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders. His eyes lock onto mine immediately.
"I made coffee," he says, his voice deliberately gentle as he extends a steaming mug toward me.
I hesitate before crossing the invisible barrier between us to accept it. The warmth seeps into my palms, and Iinhale the familiar aroma. One sip confirms what catches me off guard—he's made it exactly how I prefer. Cream, no sugar. He must have noticed during breakfast at the mansion.
"Thank you," I murmur, cradling the mug like a shield.
He gestures toward the couch, and I perch on the edge, as far from him as possible. He takes the armchair, giving me space. The consideration in this small act makes my throat tighten.
Silence settles between us, not entirely uncomfortable but heavy with expectation. Outside, birds call to each other in the trees. Inside, the clock on the mantel ticks steadily, counting seconds.
Enzo doesn't push. Doesn't demand. Just watches me with his dark, patient eyes.
I take another sip of coffee, letting the warmth fortify me. "You wanted to talk." My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.
"About what I saw last night," he confirms. "About who hurt you."
I stare down at my coffee, watching ripples form as my hands tremble slightly. Trust comes at a cost I've never been willing to pay. But here, in this moment, with this man who has shown me nothing but kindness, I find myself considering it.
"The first scar came when I was fourteen," I say, the words scraping my throat raw. I don't look up, can't bear to see his expression. "It was a cigarette burn."
The memory flashes vivid and sharp—my father's associate, his meaty hand gripping my arm, the glowing ember pressing into my skin while my father watched, expressionless. My first lesson in what happened to girls who said no.
