“Yes.”
“You’ll be with me the entire time. No one will look at you. No one will touch you. It’s simply…certain formalities that must be adhered to.”
“That makes it sound almost legitimate.” I sigh, glancing out over the fading indigo skyline.
“Ah, avecita, the most depraved creatures hide amongst civil company. You should know this.” I do. All too well. And it’s why I don’t want to attend his dinner, or gathering—whatever it is. But I won’t say no to him.
“Fine. What am I supposed to wear?” I still have no idea about fashion or clothes. I’m only just getting used to wearing them all the time.
“Just cover up.”
I frown at him. “Why?”
“Because, my little warrior, it’s very poor business to cut a man’s eyes from his head at dinner.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m a sl—”
“Don’t!”
“No one is going to notice me, Rafe.” The Master always wanted me to be the shiny object on his arm at social events. He wanted me to make him the envy of other men. I learned quickly to try and become a shadow. He never allowed it of course, but it served me well when he sold me. I can be virtually invisible if I want to be.
“How desperately unaware you are, avecita.” He says nothing more, simply starts unbuttoning his shirt and then walks back inside before going into the bathroom. I hear the shower start and frown. Why is he showering in here?
On a resigned sigh, I walk into the closet and pause. On one side are dresses and racks of shoes—way more than I could ever possibly need or use—and on the other are shirts and suit jackets and racks of shiny brogues.
Rafael’s clothes are in here. I shelf that little piece of information for a second and take the first dress I find off the hangar and change into it. Glancing at my reflection in the full-length mirror it takes me a split second to recognize myself. The pastel blue dress has a wide neck that sits just below my collarbone, with sleeves that cover my arms, concealing the tattoo on my wrist. The material clings to my now curvier body, stopping just above my knees. Glancing back at the rail of dresses, I see that there are many more, just as nice. I’ve never really looked, always diving for the shorts and tanks or summer dresses.
Returning to my reflection, I twist slightly, dragging my fingers through my hair. Golden waves tumble to the curve of my waist, shinier and bouncier than they have ever been before. My skin is tanned, my eyes brighter. I can’t comprehend this girl with who I am. We’re as different as night and day. She’s the shiny exterior covering up the mess within, and I hate her for it. I hate her for looking so perfect. I hate her because I want to be her, and I never truly will be. She’s a lie.
Taking a step back, I drop onto the small, upholstered stool in the middle of the closet. The girl in the mirror stares back at me with sad eyes, and I feel guilty for dulling the sparkle she had only moments ago. A door clicks open somewhere, and then Rafael steps into the closet, hesitating when he sees me. Our eyes meet in the mirror for a second before his slip over my full-bodied reflection.
“You look beautiful,” he says.
“A lie.”
“I don’t lie.”
“No. Her.” I point at the reflection. “She’s a lie.” I turn around to face him. He’s frowning at me. “Pretty, shiny…clean. Strong.”
“She’s you. She’s your new truth. How quick you are to dismiss it in favor of a lie.” His thumb drags over my bottom lip, his eyes tracking the movement. “Rise from the ashes, avecita, or remain in the burned-out shell of what you once were.”
He drops his hand away, those cold, unforgiving eyes on my face. He offers no sympathy, no kind words, only this simple unyielding belief that I can be better and do better. He looks at me as though I were bulletproof. Rafael turns his back on me and for the first time, my eyes drop to the bare skin of his tattooed back. A white towel clings to his hips, and I blush at the overwhelming sight of so much muscle and ink.
Pushing to my feet, I intend to move past him but pause when I see a simple red rose on his right shoulder blade, buried amongst a sea of black ink. Something about it draws my attention. The way the red petals are so detailed that I can almost feel their velvety texture under my fingertips. Or maybe it’s the little red blood droplets clinging to the thorns and the snags in his skin as though it were his blood. Before I register the movement, my fingers land on his hot skin. He freezes, and I jerk my hand away before he whirls around to face me.