Page 43 of The Savage

That should frighten me more than it comforts me. The terrible part is, it does both.

For a time, we sit like that, locked in a silence with its own weather system. My eyes burn. I tell myself it’s the hospital air. I tell myself I am only tired. I tell myself a lot of things and believe none of them.

When I sway, he notices.

‘Sleep,’ he says.

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re not. Close your eyes. I’ll be here when you wake.’

The promise is impossible and dangerously seductive. I stare at him, searching for malice, trickery, anything I can hold up to my conscience as proof I should flee. I find bruises, stubbornness, fury. And something else, buried deep: the ache of someone who has been hungry for a very long time.

‘I can’t sleep in a room with a man,’ I say, weaker than before.

‘You can,’ he agrees easily. ‘And you will.’

‘Is this how you always get your way?’

‘No.’ He looks at the key, then back to me. ‘This is how I earn it.’

My eyelids feel treacherously heavy. I fold my arms, grip my elbows, and try to anchor myself upright. A minute passes. Two.

The chair is less forgiving than stone. My head tips; I jerk it back up. He says nothing, only watches, the way a sentinel watches the horizon for the first streak of light.

‘Will you pray with me?’ I ask, the question escaping before I decide to speak.

His throat works. He nods once. ‘You start. I’ll… listen. But only if you do one more thing for me.’

I stare at him, waiting.

He stares back for a moment, then nods at my rosary before pointing to his wrist.

I don’t even know why I comply. A rosary is personal. Sacred. And yet, I find myself slowly unwrapping the beads from my hand, draping one end over his and re-tying it over both of ours.

He moves equally slowly, sliding his larger hand over mine until it engulfs mine. I gasp at the heat, the rough and smooth texture of his skin.

At the… intimacy of our flesh touching.

At the volts of electricity spreading through me as I stare.

I can’t look up into those mesmeric eyes.

So I bow my head.

It’s a good thing I asked to pray. I need guidance. Desperately. And if not, perhaps… deliverance.

The words come, softer than usual, stripped of performance: Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name… My voice drifts, thins; I lose my place and pick up again in the wrong spot, and he doesn’t correct me. When I finish, I don’t say amen. I let the end fray into breath.

He’s still watching me when I open my eyes. There’s something different in his face. Not softness. Not exactly. Restraint, maybe. A man holding the reins of his own ruin and choosing – for once – to pull back.

‘Tomorrow,’ he says, voice quiet and dangerous, ‘we start digging.’

I swallow. ‘Into what?’

‘Into you.’ He nods at the rosary binding us, then at the key in his other hand, then at the door. ‘Into your Madre. Into everything.’

Something vital seems to break inside me, then rebuild itself with determination. ‘Why?’