I only spare her the punishment I have in mind for her because something like pity clenches at my stomach at the sight of her.
“Come to bed,” I tell her, and she does.
She lies down while I take a quick shower and join her.
When I turn off the lights, she curls up looking smaller.
I rest my hand on the flat of her stomach and stroke. She glances over her shoulder at me, but we don’t say anything.
I drift off into my own nightmares that are already waiting for me.
When I wake it’s morning and instead of Olivia lying on her side in her usual way with her back turned to me, she’s curled up in my arms with her hands gripping my tank top and her head resting on my chest.
I’m actually holding her, holding her like I want to keep her safe.
I can’t remember doing that last night, or the last time I did that with anyone. These days the thing I reach for is my gun, asleep or awake.
I shuffle and her head lulls to the side moving away her thick mass of hair, but I catch a glimpse of something that catches my attention.
A little line on her scalp.
It’s the first time I’m seeing it.
I move the rest of hair away and see the line is longer than what I could previously see.
It looks like someone hit her in her head splitting it open and she’d gotten stitches.
As soon as the thought comes into my mind, I realize it looks like that because that’s exactly what happened.
I didn’t notice when her eyes opened, but she’s watching me inspect her.
“Who did this to you?” I demand. I know the answer, but I want her to say it.
“Jude,” she replies barely above a whisper.
Jude.
Motherfucker.
Hitting her head like that is messed up. It’s a different kind of punishment that not even a man like me would dole out on a woman.
She releases her grasp on my shirt, but I catch her hands, her dainty hands that look so much smaller in mine.
She’s still afraid of me and she should be, but that spark of interest that first captivated me fills her eyes as she looks at me.
As I stare back, I’m reminded of something my father once said. It was about picking up an injured snake.
It’s wounded when you pick it up so it can’t hurt you, but you know what it is when you pick it up and what it could do to you.
The snake signifies the potential for danger and what could happen if you leave yourself open to attack to something you know you shouldn’t trust.
This woman could be exactly that.
Yet in my heart something tells me she’s not. The problem with that is I haven’t relied on my heart for years and I don’t want to now.
Yet… nothing has managed to stop my fascination with her and once again I find myself pulled into whatever enchantment she’s placed on me.
It’s like a tangible force hooked to my soul. It drags me closer and closer to her lips.