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“Feeling better?” I ask.
She doesn’t reply, just stares at my face for a couple of seconds. Dear God, she is so damn young. She uncoils her arms from around my neck and trails her hands over my shoulders and down my chest, stopping at the lapels of my suit jacket. Her eyes snap down to where her hands are, and her body suddenly goes rigid. I follow her gaze and see that it’s focused on my tie. She starts shaking again and a whimper leaves her lips.
“What’s wrong?”
The girl’s breathing becomes faster and shallower, and her eyes keep staring at my tie in horror.
“Look at me.” I cup her face with my palms and tilt her head up until our gazes connect. There’s panic in her dark brown eyes. “Good. Now, breathe.”
She tries, but her breath hitches. Another try. Her lower lip trembles, and I hear a soft whisper but can’t make out what she’s saying.
“I didn’t hear you, baby. Can you try again?”
She closes her eyes and leans forward. Her words are faint next to my ear, “They always . . . wore suits.”
It takes me a few seconds to understand what she’s referring to. The moment I do, a cold chill runs down my spine. She said “they.” Plural. I thought she may have been in an abusive relationship with some psycho who drugged her.
I let go of her face and quickly remove my jacket, throwing it toward the middle of the room where she won’t see it. Then, I start undoing my tie. The girl looks down, her gaze locking onto my hands as I’m pulling at the knot, and the shaking in her body intensifies.
“Look at me.” I manage to form the words, speaking evenly so I don’t frighten her. It’s difficult because the anger raging inside of me is threatening to erupt. “Look at my eyes. Good girl. I’m throwing it away, okay?” I let the tie fall to the floor.
The moment the tie is out of view, her body relaxes a bit, but she’s still shaking.
“Shirt as well?” I ask, and without waiting for the answer, I start on the buttons.
The girl bites her lower lip and nods.
“Okay, baby.” I undo the last button and yank off the shirt. “Better?”
I stare into her red-rimmed eyes, and God, she seems so lost. She looks down again and slowly places her hand on my naked chest. The tip of her finger moves across my collarbone where my tattoos start, then slowly traces downward. It’s a barely there touch, outlining the shapes inked on my skin.
“I’m afraid I can’t remove these, mishka,” I say.
Her eyes lift back to mine, and as she watches me, the corners of her lips curve upward ever so slightly.
“Is that a smile?”
She shrugs.
It was a tiny smile, but a smile nevertheless. It completely transforms her face, giving me a glimpse of the woman she was before everything that happened to her.
“What’s your name, baby?”
The need to know her name, the tiniest of details about her, has been eating me alive.
“It’s Asya,” she says in a small voice. Unusual name.
“Asya,” I try it out. It fits her. “It’s a very pretty name. And your last name?”
“DeVille,” she whispers.
I raise my eyebrows. “You’re Italian?”
She nods.
The last name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. “Are you from Chicago?”
“New York.”
