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She shrugs. “I assumed you knew.”
I shake my head. “We found four of their bodies at the truck, and Lila said she remembered hearing you fire your gun, but that’s all. I didn’t know you shielded her. I didn’t know you were the one who shot those men. And I never understood why you were tortured in ways Lila wasn’t. Now I do. It was because of your strength.”
Her eyebrows pull together in confusion. “What?”
“Your strength. Your spirit. Your fight. You never backed down. That’s why they hated you. They couldn’t break you. You think those bastards took everything from you. You believe you’re weak.” I tip her chin up to look me in the eye. “Charlie, you're the strongest person I know.”
Her mouth falls open. “I don’t know what to say,” she mumbles.
“Just file it away and remind yourself of it when you need to hear it.” I lift her hand and kiss her knuckles. “Come on. Let’s get ready for bed.”
I watch her put away the mirror after she finishes my massage. “I have another question, Baby Girl.” She glances over. “I’ve been researching night terrors, and they recommend relaxing bedtime routines, things like music or massage or yoga. Want to give it a try?”
She grins. “You want to do yoga with me?”
I chuckle. “I’ll try it if you want me to, but I doubt it'll go well. I meant you could put on some soothing music, and I’ll give you a back rub.”
Her eyes fly to mine. “You’d give me a back rub?”
“Not if it would make you uncomfortable,” I say hastily. “I just thought –”
She shakes her head. “That’s not it. It’s just – won’t my scars bother you?”
I scowl. “It won’t bother me to rub your back any more than it bothers you to massage my leg because some bastard blew half of it off. They’re both battle wounds.”
She hesitates. “They’re very… textured.”
I start to remind her that I rubbed her shoulders a couple of nights ago, but don’t. I don’t want her to not ask in the future because of her worry that I might be bothered by her scars. “Does it hurt when they’re touched?” I ask instead.
“No.”
“So you’re telling me they’re textured just to warn me?”
“I guess.”
I frown. “Then quit being stupid.”
“I just don’t want you caught off guard. They’re a lot to take in.” Her face reddens.
I think about how she always keeps her back covered. She’s ashamed of her scars. I keep my voice gentle. “Charlie, I saw your wounds when they were raw, and I was there when they were healing. Your scars won't bother me.”
She finally nods and picks up her phone, finding something that sounds like bamboo wind chimes and trickling water. I reach for the bottle of oil. “Turn around,” she says, reaching for the hem of her shirt. I comply and hear the rustle of fabric. The bed shifts as she lays down. “Okay.”
She pulls a hair tie from her wrist, securing her hair out of the way. I squirt massage oil into my hands and warm it between my palms as I study her bare back.
Fucking savages.
Thick purple ropes and jagged, thin lavender stripes mar her entire back and dip below the waistband of her shorts. Across the middle of her back is that goddamn brand, flat and pale, a collection of artistic dips and wide swirls that might be pretty — if they weren't burned into her flesh.
Stupid cunt whore. They branded her with their vile slurs, forever emblazoning their lies on her soft skin.
I remember my tantrum in San Antonio and once again feel sick. I’d give anything to take that back. To take every second of it back.
Most of all, I’d like to take back my mindless agreement to send two medical teams to help those villagers. Every bit of the hell she’s been through is my fault for dropping my guard.
I place oiled hands on her back and start to massage in long strokes, working from the small of her back to her neck and shoulders. Within a minute, she’s relaxing into my touch.
“Visualize something relaxing.”
