“Sorry. Didn’t see your foot there.”

“Everything is on the table. Do you need me to tell you what everything is?”

“No. I’ll use my flashlight.”

“No light.”

“Just to look at the table, then I’ll turn it off. I promise.”

I swallow hard and consider telling him to leave. Then I remember that stitch I just pulled out. “Hurry up.”

He turns toward the coffee table, on his knees, and the flashlight clicks on. I pull my hood over my face and turn away from him, toward the back of the sofa as he sifts through my collection of first aid products. He clicks the flashlight off and I sigh as I turn back to him. He has something in his hand. It looks like a square of cotton.

“Just lie all the way back and relax.”

I ease myself down onto the sofa, but I keep my gaze locked on his hands as they move toward my belly. He grabs the bottom of my sweater and I flinch.

“Why are you so afraid?”

“I’m not afraid.”

“I can hear your heartbeat.” He pauses for me to respond, but I don’t. “Just relax.”

“Hurry up.” I repeat this demand because I don’t know what else to say.

He lifts the bottom of my sweater up, but it’s not enough to see the top of the dressing.

“Lift your back for a moment so I can raise this up a little more.”

I raise my hips and lower back a little so he can push the sweater up a bit more. Then his fingertip makes contact with the skin over my ribs and I flinch again.

“Please hurry.”

“I’ll go as fast as I can.”

He begins to pull the tape away from the top half of the wound, then he stops when he feels the resistance. He folds down the top half of the dressing and he squeezes the cotton square. A few drops of saline solution come out of the cotton and drip onto my burning wound. He uses the moisture on my skin and on the cotton square to loosen the dressing a bit.

“Why do you hide your face?”

The question stuns me and I have to remind myself to keep breathing. “I think you should leave.”

“I apologize. I didn’t mean to pry.” There’s a long silence where neither of us moves, then he continues to clean my stitches. “I just wonder why anyone would want to hide such beauty.”

The word beauty is not a word anyone has ever used in my reference. Not even my parents have called me beautiful. My parents were not the best parents, but at least I can say they never lied to me.

“How do you know I’m beautiful if you’ve never seen me in the light?”

“I don’t. But you have a beautiful figure and a graceful voice. It stands to reason that your face must match the rest of you.”

“And if it doesn’t? Does that make me unreasonable?”

“Not at all. It makes you different. Different is good.”

He lifts away the old dressing cleanly and I breathe a sigh of relief. I begin to sit up and he places his hand on my belly to stop me.

“Wait. Let me put your new dressing.”

I push his hand off, perhaps a bit too roughly. “I can do that.”

He chuckles as he stands. “Have you ever been touched by a man, Alex?”

“It’s time for you to leave.” He bumps his leg on the coffee table as I usher him toward the door, then I quickly make my way back into the kitchen before he can open it and let the soft glow of the light in the corridor. “Thank you for your help, but I need to rest. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Alex. Until next time.”

Chapter Four

The lies we tell ourselves have more power to destroy us than any lie we are ever told by another. All week long, I lie to myself. I try to convince myself that I don’t want to see Daimon ever again. I tell myself that I didn’t need his help. I could have changed the dressing over my wound myself. And I insist he had no bearing on my decision to go back to Dr. Grossman’s office to have the stitches professionally removed.

And the biggest lie of all: I felt nothing when he touched me.

But after eight days without a single knock on my door, I can’t keep lying to myself. I don’t know what I felt, but I know it wasn’t nothing.

His voice echoes so soft yet commanding in my mind. That delicate French accent. The strong nose and jaw I could barely see the silhouette of with my left eye. His lips, the bottom one just a bit fuller than the top.

I shake my head to clear away the image as I pull the clean clothes out of the dryer and dump everything into a laundry basket at my feet. I push the basket back then close the door on the utility closet. Grabbing the basket, I take it into the bedroom and begin folding the clothes.

My wardrobe consists of eight pairs of size six blue jeans, eight black hoodies, eight white camisoles, and eight pairs of underwear. Why eight instead of seven? In case I lose something, I’ll still have seven of everything until the new item is delivered from my preferred online retailer.

I know it sounds crazy. Wearing the same thing every day. Never shopping in a real store. Believe me, I know. I used to watch TV and movies. I’ve seen how normal women my age live. Worrying over what to wear; spending hours at the mall to find the right dress to impress whatever random guy they meet at the bar. I know that’s considered normal. But I am in no way normal.

And I was finally coming to terms with that until Daimon Rousseau blasted his way into my life two weeks ago. I’ve had two brief encounters with the man, who killed someone in front of me. Despite him being a killer, I allowed him into my apartment. And in return, he saved my life by referring me to a physician. Then I let him in again. And he touched me.

“Have you ever been touched by a man?”

No. I’ve never been touched by a man. The only time my father touched me was when we were fighting or training. I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’ve never even shaken hands with Aasif. I fought off Shorty and his friends two weeks ago and two months before that I fought off a huge drunkard in the gas station parking lot when he tried to grope me. But, other than that, I’ve never felt the touch of a man. Until now.

I let him touch me.

And now I can’t think of anything else.

My panties are all that’s left in the laundry basket when I hear the knock at the door. I try not to smile as I lift the stack of folded clothes off my bed and dump them back in with the panties. Then I drop the basket onto the floor in front of my feet and kick it somewhere into the dark corner of my bedroom.

I take a deep breath and walk calmly toward the front door. Looking through the peephole, my stomach vaults at the sight of him. He has his back to me again.

Last time, I assumed this was a sign of submission. But now I’m wondering if he just doesn’t want me to see his face in the soft light of the corridor.

Suddenly, that schoolgirl giddiness I felt a moment ago seems like a moment of weakness.

I smile as I reach for the doorknob. I’ve healed enough to take him on.

I pull the door inward just a couple of inches, then I head for the dark kitchen again. Like last time, he enters and quickly pushes the door closed in one swift motion. Making it impossible for me to get a glimpse of his face. The room is dark again, but not so dark that I can’t see him turn toward me. We’re already establishing a routine.

Routines can be dangerous. Routines make people relax and do things automatically, without thinking. Not thinking is dangerous.

“Good evening, Alex.”

His voice is so different than any voice I’ve ever heard. It’s warm and strong, laced with a slight gruffness and that barely detectable French accent. All these qualities come together so that every word he speaks sounds orchestrated and … bewitching. As if he’s casting a spell on me.

“Good evening, Daimon.”

A long silence follows as I wait for him to tell me why he’s here and he waits for me to question his presence. Finally, he speaks.