2. Deliver Me From Evil

“Come, Little Kitty. Time to put you to bed.”

Without a word and without me expecting it, he lifts me up and carries me down the hall. I hook an arm over his shoulder. It’s all I can do as my mind processes what is happening, what I should be doing, and what my reaction should be. But it’s a mistake because I find my grip tightening on the hard muscle of his shoulders, his bicep, feeling his strength beneath the barrier of clothes. 

Santos Augustine is all man… and I like it.

He doesn’t say anything. I’m sure he’s humoring drunk me. He opens a bedroom door, sets me on the bed, and crouches to slip my shoes off. I watch his dark head and feel his big hands gently cup each foot. He remains where he is, crouched down, and looks up at me as he slides his hands along one calf, knee, thigh. I fist the bedsheets, and it takes all I have not to whimper as I hold his gaze. 

His grin is back, darker this time, dirtier. My throat goes dry as his fingers hook around the elastic of the thigh high stockings, anticipating. His gaze never drops mine, never releases me. I can’t look away as he drags my stocking down over my leg and cups my heel as he slips it off. 

My body is aflame, every nerve ending alive. I’ve never been so attracted to a man in my life. Never. Boys I found cute in high school are nothing next to Santos Augustine. 

He straightens, shifts my position so I’m lying against the headboard, and when he reaches to do the same with the other stocking, I let myself close my eyes just for a minute, just one single moment, to feel this. Just feel this foreign sensation. 

But when I open them again, I realize my mistake… because he’s not looking at my face anymore. He’s looking at my legs, at what he can see where the skirt has split open. And his face has turned to stone, his mouth into a hard line. His eyes are impossibly dark—so dark the green is all but obliterated. 

With trembling hands, I reach for the two sides of my dress and pull them closed as he lifts his gaze to mine. A moment passes, silent and heavy, before he shifts his gaze to my hands, covers them with his, and draws the dress apart again.

“Don’t,” I say, desperate for him not to see, because how could I be so stupid? 

He doesn’t stop, though. He pushes my hands away, and there are too many bruises, too many still angry welts. His hands tighten, like he’s flexing a fist as he moves the dress farther over and sees more. More. So much more. 

I can hear myself breathing ragged breaths, hear the panic in the rush of blood against my ears. The room spins around us as I try to focus on the top of his head, on the feel of calloused hands softly tracing something else. Something different than the fresh welts. Something older. 

My throat closes up and I feel my eyes well.

When he looks at my face again, I can’t hold his gaze. It’s too much, too overwhelming. He’s seen too much.

I hate that nickname he’s given me. Little Kitty. Wounded, fragile little kitty. Broken little kitty. Little kitty who is alone and pathetic and helpless.

I try to steel myself, to swallow down all the emotions. 

“Madelena,” he says, my name a command. 

I raise my gaze to his because I have no choice. 

“The cuts are old,” he says in a tone that seems barely controlled. “We will discuss those.” 

We won’t. I can’t. He won’t understand. I barely understand.

“But there’s a more pressing matter,” he continues, and I’m relieved for exactly one split second. “The welts, they’re fresh. That’s why the painkillers.”

I swallow. I mean to nod even though he didn’t ask it as a question, but I’m not sure I can. 

“Who did this to you?” he asks, voice ragged and low and unrecognizable.

I just stare at him, unable to answer, to do anything but stare at this man who is different than I expected him to be. Because what would he do to the man who did this? Who truly did hurt me? Who more than touched what is his? 

I’ve seen what he’s capable of, and I have a feeling it’s the tip of the iceberg. If he gets his hands on the man who did this, what he did to Jason Cole will look gentle. 

“Who did this to you, Madelena?” he asks again in that rough voice, the slightly unhinged one. But still, he’s controlled. He’s reining it in, whatever he’s feeling.

“It won’t happen again,” I say, not sure why because I can’t guarantee that. But there’s one more thing at play. He doesn’t understand that it could have been so much worse. It could have been Odin, not me. Odin, who still limps after so many years. 

I hear him swallow, watch his Adam’s apple work. It’s easier than looking into his eyes. 

“There are two men who had access to you. Your father and your brother.”

I flinch. 

He stands, hands fists at his sides. “Which one of them did this?”

I look down at the bed, the pretty coverlet with the fleur-de-lis pattern. At my legs, at the chaos the belt left behind. Rage. This is the result of uncontrolled rage. When men lose control, it’s dangerous for the women in the room. 

“Your brother was protective of you once. I remember that.”

I draw my knees up to sit on them, cover them with my dress. It’s too hard to look at him. But he takes my jaw with one giant hand and forces my face upward. I’m trembling all over, and I hug my arms around myself. He’s silent for a long, long time as that well of tears streams down my face. 

“Who hurt what is mine, Madelena?”