Page 83 of Rescuing You

Which was clear, but she didn’t understand how. “You are not a salesman.”

“I am a salesman.”

Jasmine was asleep. It was just them and darkness in every direction. There was nobody to hear the truth if he were to speak it.

But the silence stretched, raising a barrier between them, transparent but impenetrable.

He blew out a breath. “I’m not only a salesman.”

And the barrier cracked. “Then what⁠—?”

“Can you trust me for a little while longer?”

Trust him? How could she not?

She lifted his hand in both of hers, bending to press a kiss to the knuckles. “I trust you, Michael.”

“If that were true, you’d do as I say.”

She lowered his hand, resting it on her knee. “It’s not a matter of trust. It’s just that, like I told you, I’m not the compliant sister. I like to know the plan. And I don’t like to be told what to do—and to be expected to obey without question.” Bitterness tinged her voice—enough that Michael glanced her way, squinting as if trying to read her thoughts.

He said nothing, just waited for her to explain.

He deserved that, at least.

“My father made all the decisions, always. If Mama questioned him…” A memory came, no less unpleasant than the ones she’d been battling since they left the hospital. “When I was about eight, my parents got into an argument. Baba told Mama to do something, and she didn’t think it was a good idea. She tried to tell him, gently, but also to make her opinion known. It should have been a simple conversation.”

He’d backhanded Mama, sending her sprawling across the room.

Which was horrifying enough, but they were at Leila’s grandparents’ home, surrounded by people. Hasan was there, along with Baba’s parents and other cousins and aunts and uncles.

And none of them, not one, went to Mama’s aid. None even acted surprised.

The women looked away.

Hasan watched with approval. Approval, as if Baba striking his wife were a perfectly reasonable thing to do.

Which wasn’t unusual. Many Iraqi men beat their wives and children. But not Baba, not before that.

He’d grabbed Mama’s arm, hauled her to her feet, and marched her like a child up the stairs. He locked her in a room—and left her there.

Though Leila had never shared the story before, she told Michael everything. “During the next few days, Yasamin and I begged Baba to let Mama out of that room, or to let us in to see her. But he refused. And through the door, Mama told us it had been her fault. That she should not have disagreed with her husband. That she’d made him do it. As if she had gotten what she deserved.” Humiliation burned Leila’s cheeks as if Mama’s shame were her own.

As if her shame was the shame of every woman who didn’t fight back against such treatment.

As if they could.

Michael’s jaw hardened. “Nobody deserves to be treated like that.”

His reaction cooled her own bitterness. He would never treat his wife that way. She knew that. Intellectually, she knew.

“I will not be dominated, not by my father or a husband or any man. I always asked questions. I always argued. Even when mine was the cheek he slapped. Even when it was my body crumpled on the floor. Because…because how dare he? I would rather fight and suffer the consequences than be someone’s servant.”

Michael waited, perhaps giving her the space to continue.

When she didn’t, he asked, “Was your mother all right?”

“Yes.” Leila exhaled her frustration. “Only bruised. And hungry because he didn’t let her eat, even though she said she was sorry. Even though she groveled.” She swallowed a fresh wave of shame.