Sweet Collateral

He jerks awake, letting out a cute little snuffle as he does.

“Ah, Anna. I can explain…” he trails off, a blush staining his cheekbones. “The doc said someone had to watch you because you might have a concussion, and uh, I fell asleep. I’m sorry.”

“So, I could have died, and you wouldn’t even have known?”

His eyes pop wide. “No! Yes. Maybe.”

I smile. “It’s fine, Lucas.”

He blows out a breath. “So, how are you feeling today?”

“Like I was in a car crash and a gun fight.”

“I’ll go and get you some more painkillers.” He hops up and practically runs to the door.

Lifting my hand to my cut forehead, I feel a neat row of butterfly stitches. Blood is crusted into the strands of my hair, and I know I must look a mess.

Lucas doesn’t come back for a while, so I drag myself into the shower. When the dust and blood has washed down the drain. I get out, startling when I go back to my room and find Rafael sitting on the bed.

“Rafael.”

Heavy shadows linger beneath his eyes. His suit pants and shirt are rumpled, the buttons loose to the middle of his chest. His usual put-together self is nowhere to be seen.

“Have you slept?” I ask.

His lips pull up on one side. “I’ve had a busy night.”

I move closer until my knees are only inches from his. Those dark eyes drift up my towel-covered body before studying my face. This strange feeling settles in my chest, and the air between us shifts. For a moment, Rafael seems almost vulnerable, until I spot the smear of blood on the collar of his shirt, and the open splits in his knuckles.

He follows my gaze and clenches his fists. I don’t know why I do it, but I find myself reaching for him, taking his much larger hand in mine. His tattooed, scarred skin contrasts against mine. These hands have committed so much violence and done horrible things.

“He deserved everything he got,” he says quietly.

“Who?”

“The man who took you from my house.” I swallow and sweep my finger over an open graze on his knuckle.

“Does this scare you, avecita?” He brushes a strand of hair from my cheek, his touch so gentle and at odds with his brutal appearance. “Do I scare you?”

“No,” I breathe, and it’s not a lie. Everything about him should terrify me, but it doesn’t. Rafael D’Cruze is the last person who should make me feel safe but if I’m really honest with myself, I’ve felt safe with Rafael ever since that night on his office floor. It’s a gut feeling I can’t explain, something beyond the rational workings of my mind.

He turns his hand over and strokes his fingers over the underside of my wrist. “I have something I think you should do.” He stands, forcing me to take a step back from his imposing frame. “Get dressed and meet me downstairs.” Then he’s striding out the door. What could he possibly want me to do?

Rafael is waiting at the bottom of the stairs when I get there. His hair is damp from the shower, the rumpled clothing replaced with a clean shirt.

“So what is it that you want me to do?”

He turns and starts down the hall. “Come with me.” I follow, my bare feet whispering over the terracotta tile. At the end of the hall, he pushes open a door, revealing a set of stairs that lead down. Peering down into the darkness, a shiver of fear skates down my spine.

“Scared of the dark?” he mocks.

“Depends what’s in the dark.”

With the flip of a switch, the stairs illuminate. I swear the temperature drops by several degrees as we descend. Stopping outside a door at the bottom, he turns to face me.

“If you want to leave at any point, you can.”

Reassuring words. I frown, and the door clicks open. The sight that greets me when I step into the room has me freezing in place.

A figure hangs from a hook in the center of the ceiling, wrists chained and his body slumped awkwardly. He seems to be unconscious, his chin lolling against his chest. There’s a line attached to one of his arms, hooked to a blood bag. It confuses me until I take in the rest of him. One of his hands is bandaged, blood soaking through the white linen. On closer inspection, I realize that his fingers are missing and the hand is nothing more than a bloody stump. The shirt hanging from his body is torn, the bloodstained material exposing an array of bruises and cuts all over his skin. He’s a canvas depicting a violent and gruesome story. The blood bag is keeping him alive long enough that he doesn’t bleed out. It’s savagely morbid.

The room looks like some kind of slaughter chamber. It’s cold like a walk-in refrigerator. There are no windows, just the one door—no escape. The walls, floor, and ceiling are all a dull grey, stained in various places with darker rust-colored patches. A metal trolley rests against a wall with various knives, pliers, and knuckle-dusters on it. Rafael has a room in his basement solely for the purpose of torturing and killing people. In the back of my mind, there’s this niggling awareness that this should bother me, but the time for what should or shouldn’t be, has long since passed. I find the violence of it all strangely peaceful because I know it. Blood and pain; the simple act of consequence and punishment; I understand it more than anything else.