Page 55 of Brutal Knight

I can feel my mouth open, but nothing comes out. I can’t figure out what to say. I don’t know if there is anything to say.

Connor slows, his shouting dying down as he stares at me.

“Why won’t you let me help you?”

There’s anger in his voice, but there’s something else there I’ve never heard before. Not from Dmitri, not from anyone pretending to be my friend.

It’s desperation.

No one ever really cared about the way I was hurt. Anyone that cared felt sorry for me, looked at me with pity, picked me up when they found me on the floor.

No one’s ever cared enough to be desperate, be at a loss trying to help me. No one’s cared enough to be hurt when I was hurt. No one.

I can feel something crack inside me. I almost think I’m having a heart attack, and I have to push my palm against my chest to feel my heart beat, feel it keep going. It’s not something physical that’s hurting me right now.

It’s the fact that Connor actually cares, and he’s hurt that I’m hurt.

I need to make him understand why. I can’t stand seeing him like this because of me, because he doesn’t understand. There’s really only one thing I can do to fix this. I have to give him a piece of myself.

I’ve never done this before. I’ve never wanted to. But I know I have to.

I curl my hands over the edge of my sweater and pull it off. My muscles ache a little, the overdose still wearing off, my body exhausted from what it’s been put through. It doesn’t matter. I have more important things to focus on right now.

I feel so exposed as the sweater falls from my hands. I have to fight not to run, to make myself stay right where I am, where Connor can see me.

He goes absolutely still, his gaze zeroing in on me. I know what he’s looking at: the scars. The fine white lines running over my chest, the darker ones by my hips and stomach. The ones on my arms, some jagged and some perfectly straight.

I press my fingers to my abdomen, right over a long scar. “This one was a kitchen knife. I think he didn’t expect it to break my jacket. It did.”

I can remember that moment. I remember the terror. I shake my head and move on to my left arm, holding it up and twisting it in the light so Connor can see the faint white lines on my forearm. They’re symmetrical, five of them in a row.

“This one, I don’t know what the tool was called. I think he used it on people he interrogated.”

I run my fingers over the rest, along my marked body. I’ve never really looked at the scars in the light of day, and never like this. It feels raw.

Connor swallows, a storm brewing in his eyes. I know he’s looking, know his mind is probably racing to fill in the blanks. I know he understands what happens in the mafia, but I can tell he’s never seen it on a person like me. A woman who was a wife.

Now that I’m on display, I can’t stop myself. I can’t hold my tongue. The words just spill out, like a dam has been broken.

“When I was younger, my father…he let his allies do things. To me.” I look down at my arms. “He only really had one condition. He made them swear not to take my virginity.”

Connor doesn’t speak. I can’t look at him.

“Whatever his idea of virginity was,” I say, shaking my head. “He told them they could ‘play’ as much as they wanted. Just as long as what was useful wasn’t touched. He wanted to save that.”

I think about my marriage. I wanted it to save me so much, and it turned out to be nothing but more abuse. It was worse.

“He kept it for Dmitri, and Dmitri picked up right where my father left off.” I close my eyes and wonder if the tears will ever fall. “I never wanted any of this. I’ve been a prisoner my whole life. And drugs? They were the only way I could escape.”

CHAPTER22

Connor

I can’t say a single goddamn thing. How could I?

All I can do is look.

I almost don’t believe it. The scars on Willow’s chest, across her arms—they’re all horrible. Her skin is pale, but somehow they still stand out. They’re so white they almost glow.

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