Page 83 of Love to Defy You
Enzo is enraptured with my scars, tracing them with his finger. “And why did he do that?”
I let out a hollow laugh. “Why else? Punishment.”
“Was he a cruel man?”
I narrow my gaze. “Yes.”
Silence falls between us. Neither of us speak until Gunther finishes his stencil design and snaps on a pair of latex gloves. He reaches for the tattoo gun and turns it on, and a mechanical buzzing pierces the silence.
“Did he give you the scar on your ass?” Enzo asks.
I shift in the leather seat, which is already starting to fuse to my bare cheeks. “Yes.”
“How?”
I take a breath through my nose, trying to fight the chill. “A belt. Eighteen lashes.”
Enzo strokes his chin. “Did it hurt?”
I snort. “Only a little.”
“Why did he do it?”
I close my eyes and think back to that night—a night I’d rather forget. “Because I defied him.”
Enzo quirks an eyebrow. “How?”
“By going against his wishes and falling for an American girl.”
Enzo hums. “Willow Baker.”
I open my eyes and stare at the wall of skulls stretching toward the ceiling.
Gunther brings the needle down on my arm, and a burning sensation pierces my skin. I grimace against the pain, although it’s nothing compared to the abuse I endured at my father’s hand.
“And this one?” Enzo prods at the scar on my bicep. The sensation is dulled from the nerve damage there.
“Bullet wound.” My patience is wearing thin with his inane questioning. “During the Labor Party uprising in Andarusia.”
“I see.” At last, Enzo removes his hands from my body and leans back in his chair. “The day the president of Andarusia was assassinated.”
The whirring of the tattoo gun fills the lull in the interrogation. After a couple of minutes, the pain dulls, though it’s likely from my skin growing numb.
“Did your mother not intervene with your father’s abuse?” Enzo asks after a long stretch.
“No.”
“Do you resent her for it?”
I grit my teeth to keep them from chattering. “I suppose so.”
He folds his hands in his lap. “What type of woman is she? Your mother?”
I shrug. “Self-absorbed. Vain. Singularly focused on money.”
Enzo continues to interrogate me, digging through my early childhood up until the Labor Party revolution and how I feel about being exiled. He’s looking for some show of emotion or weakness to exploit, but he doesn’t get the rise out of me he wants. As Gunter fills in the tattoo with black ink, Enzo grows restless.
If I weren’t on the brink of hypothermia, I would relish his frustration.
