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A shout locked behind her teeth as she grabbed the hem of the shirt and dragged it off over her head. The black material fell with a splat against the tiles, and she bent to retrieve the soap. Nearest to her feet, the water still ran a little red. Her foot was bleeding, and the pressure she put on it sent a sharp prick of pain through her again. She sat her bare ass down on the slick tiles and ran her lathered hands around its sole.
Something imbedded in her instep nicked her finger. It took three tries before her wrinkled fingers could grasp enough of the shard of glass to remove it. She bent her head, letting the now-chilly water beat along her shoulders and back. Breathing was hard enough. Doing anything more, especially standing, would have to wait.
The cold sent a renewed shiver through her body. She refused to think about what had been done to her, even though the stab wounds along her arms ached under her resting head, and the ones along her thighs burned where the water continued to beat down on her.
The sound of the water filled her ears, drowning out words and memories and the sob that couldn’t have come from her.
She was sitting over the drain. The slowly building water floated the sleeve of the shirt against her leg, reminding her of her nakedness.
Alina stood on trembling limbs, then turned off the water. The slide of the glass door echoed in the silence as she stepped out. There was no rug under her feet, just water-slicked tile. She tried to dry herself quickly, but the towel dragged against her cuts, making her teeth sink harder into her bottom lip, so she became more careful with her movements. She was still damp as she dragged on the clothes the gloved man had left her.
There was no underwear, just too-big gym shorts and a loose, white T-shirt. She regretted not taking more time to dry off when water seeped into the shirt. The shorts still felt like they would fall off at any moment, even after she tied the drawstring as tight as she could.
She didn’t let herself stare at the door for too long. The sound of the latch made her wince as she pushed it open to pad out.
The man crouched against the far wall. He didn’t turn to face her as she emerged. Instead, he stared at the ottoman at the foot of the bed. Supplies had been set up on the floor near it: bandages and ointment and other things.
Alina limped toward the supplies. The foot she’d pulled the glass shard out of hurt to put her weight on. She pulled her foot up toward her as she sat, her fingers brushing along the spot where it hurt the worst.
“I thought I heard you leave,” she mumbled, not looking at him. She gestured toward the supplies. “Was it to get all this?” As the fingers of her other hand continued to probe, slivers of glass pricked at them, too small to grip properly.
His words were softer than hers had been. “Blood trail. Gone now.”
She nodded and waited for the panic over others finding them to fill her. It didn’t come. Instead, the memory of how the hilt of the knife fit in her grip returned.
She breathed through the memory. It felt more unreal than anything else that had happened. She distracted herself by trying to grip the glass again. Her fingers were small, but she couldn’t get it. She kept the cry of frustration inside, but her hand fell away.
“Do you have tweezers or something? I can’t get this glass out.”
“On the right,” he murmured.
She leaned forward to peer down at the carpet again. The metal tweezers were easy enough to spot, but no easier to use. Her fingers kept shaking. It felt like she shoved the glass deeper as they slipped off the shard again and again. Tears pricked the edges of her eyes as her breath hissed out between her teeth.
Shadows moved along the wall. No, not shadows. The man had risen and crossed to the bathroom. The sound of water, not the same as the shower, followed.
He was probably annoyed by how pathetic she was. Alina tried to make her hand stop shaking as she attempted to remove the glass. She missed him crossing the room, so that she nearly jerked back when he crouched in front of her, a hand held out.
The hand was no longer gloved. His skin was pale in the only light that filtered in from the bathroom—at least, it was pale where it wasn’t inked. More tattoos trailed over the tops of his hands, almost as if the bones themselves had been traced and marked, though his palms were clear. His fingers were long and tapered, his hand steady. He took the tweezers from her, careful not to brush against her skin.
His other hand curled under her heel in a barely-there grip. He bit his lip as he did it, his eyes dilating.
Alina tried to hold still when he moved the tweezers toward her. Her eyes closed, expecting more pain. She felt nothing for long enough that she opened her eyes. His were narrowed intently on the bottom of her foot as he removed another sliver of glass. One after another, he pulled them free, and she barely felt a twinge of pain.
“What do I call you?” she asked.
He stilled for a moment before resuming his work. “Luka.”
She waited for him to ask her name, her mind racing over whether to tell him the truth, but he never asked. The man who had raped her had already known. Perhaps this man knew as well.
He released her as soon as possible. A soaked cotton ball touched her next, sending a burning sensation flooding through her foot.
The barest of gasps escaped her, and her hand reached out, gripping his forearm right over the tattooed skull.
Luka’s arm froze under her grip, and he hissed in a breath. “Don’t,” he said.
It was the note of panic within the word that made her release him quickly. He waited until her hands curled over the edge of the ottoman instead before he finished cleansing her foot.
She stared at his hands as they bandaged her next. One of his hands had a cross inked in the gap between his thumb and his forefinger. The rosary beads she’d noticed before linked with the cross. He pulled away before she could take in all the art. He handed her the ointment, careful not to touch her fingers in passing. Then he crossed to the farthest corner of the room, leaning into it as if he could disappear.
