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“Go ahead,” I said, when I couldn’t stand the quiet any longer. “Beat my ass black and blue. Tell me I deserve it for being a little brat. Don’t just stand there. Get it over with.”
Gideon tenderly touched his nose with a wince. Then he shook his head.
“I’m not going to do that.”
“Right. Of course not. You wouldn’t want to get your hands dirty. I guess that job belongs to your bruiser—the hulking beast in the bar you spoke to earlier. What was his name again? Vlad? Well, invite him in here. Make it a party. You can sit back and watch while he’s the one who beats the shit out of me.”
Blood darkened Gideon’s lips and he swiped it away with the back of his hand. He fixed his dark eyes on me with that unnervingly level stare. Unshakeable.
It freaked me out that he was so damn calm about this. My father broke my arm once for accidentally spilling a glass of milk. There was no way an intimidating tough guy like Big G would let me get away with breaking his fucking nose.
“I’m not going to do that either,” he said. “No matter how much you might act up, you don’t deserve anyone raising their hand to you.”
I blinked at him, stunned. After a moment, I recovered enough to scoff.
“What a gentleman. You’ve been manhandling me, tossing me around like a rag doll, and you were about to rip the clothes off my body, but hitting me is taking it too far. It’s good to know you have standards, even if they’re fucked up.”
For the first time, Gideon voluntarily broke eye contact and glanced down. I followed his gaze to the massive bruise on my hip, just above the elastic of my panties.
When I told my brother that I didn’t want to run drugs for him anymore, he’d slammed me against the kitchen cupboards. What Gideon didn’t see were the bruises that studded my back from the cupboard handles digging into my spine. Or the bruise in the shape of my brother’s handprint when he grabbed my upper arm, threatening to break it if I didn’t do as I was told.
Gideon also didn’t see the scar under my right breast from a drug run gone wrong, when I caught a knife to the ribs. My brother refused to take me to a hospital. I had to stitch myself up on my own—a sloppy, ugly affair that almost got infected. It was still pink and tender.
Hell, I didn’t want Gideon seeing any of the scars or bruises that littered my body.
Most men saw my bruises and took it as an invitation to hurt me more.
On rare occasions, one or two men had looked at me with pity, and it had churned my stomach. I didn’t need anyone’s damn pity.
After what felt like a lifetime, Gideon finally dragged his gaze back up to my face. Water droplets dotted his leather vest, soaked his shirt until it clung to his muscled shoulders like a second skin.
“Who did that to you?”
His tone had changed—quiet and firm, with a hard edge like a knife, ready to draw blood.
I grabbed the hem of my shirt and shoved it down, attempting to cover the bruise.
“It’s nothing.”
I tensed, waiting for him to force the issue. Expecting him to scoff at my paper-thin lie and unleash his anger, letting it boil until it filled the room, oppressive and loud.
Gideon swiped the back of his hand under his nose. A streak of blood marked his knuckles. He winced slightly, betraying the fact that it really did hurt despite his valiant effort to hide how much pain he must be in, thanks to me.
“Do I look stupid to you?”
Undoubtedly a rhetorical question, but I latched onto it, probably despite my better judgment.
“Don’t you think I’ve done enough damage already?” I countered, fighting my voice to remain steady. “I’ll leave your pride in fucking pieces if I answer that question.”
Gideon snorted then grimaced since it probably hurt like hell. I was still shaking so hard that my muscles were cramping. My lips must have been turning blue by now.
“With that wicked little tongue of yours, I have no doubt you could wreck a man twice your size and leave him curled up in a ball, crying,” he replied. “But bruises don’t materialize out of nowhere. So, I’ll ask you one more time. Who did that to you?”
I huddled in the tub and scowled at him, silent, indicating I had no intention of cooperating. He sighed and ran a hand through his damp hair, slicking it back.
“I should bend you over my knee for being so stubborn,” he muttered.
After years of beatings, I knew how to recognize a genuine threat when I saw one. There was no heat to Gideon’s voice though, no real menace to his words.
