Stolen: Dante’s Vow by Natasha Knight
Mara
Istare at the door for a long time after he leaves. After I’ve heard the downstairs door slam shut so hard it rattled the glasses on the counter.
He’s gone. Walked out.
It’s what I wanted. At least for him to stop. But now that he’s gone, I feel alone. Cold. Feel the empty space where he was.
Matthaeus comes toward me, stopping a few feet from me.
“You should get out of those wet things. Have a warm shower. I’ll make something to eat. Come on.”
We walk into the hall, and he gestures to Dante’s open bedroom door. I wonder if he’s not afraid that I’ll try to run again.
“I changed the lock on the window. There’s no way out. I also took the locks off both the bedroom and bathroom doors.”
I shift my gaze back to Matthaeus, disliking him for this. He’s loyal to Dante. That’s clear. I study him, his eyes a warm brown, hair almost the same shade as his eyes. Square jawed like all of them. Big, like all of them. Soldiers. Killers.
“The brand on your hip is infected.”
I feel my face flush. He saw it, too?
“I left a fresh bandage and ointment you’ll need to put on it in the bathroom. Do that after your shower and if it hurts, let me know. You’ll need to clean it and put that ointment on twice a day.”
I don’t reply.
He gestures to the bedroom. “Go. Ten minutes or I’ll come in there and get you.”
He means it. I know it from his expression. He’s the first to turn away. He walks into the kitchen. He’s not afraid to give me his back. Not afraid of me. I get it. I have no doubt he can overpower me and, more importantly, he won’t hesitate to. He’s been given the green light by Dante. Besides, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t think I’m worth the trouble they went through.
So, I walk down the hall, guilt gnawing at me for what I said. For that look on Dante’s face.
Inside the bedroom I notice Matthaeus hasn’t just taken the lock off the door but removed the doorknob altogether. Same with the bathroom. I can’t even close either door. And there is a brand-new lock on the window. He’s been busy.
I head to the bathroom, stripping off my boots and wet things, hanging them on the drying rack because I’m not sure I have other clothes. The bandage on my hip is already peeling so I pull it the rest of the way off and try not to see the angry red P there. I touch my hand to the skin around it. It feels hot.
I switch on the shower and step under the flow. It feels good. So good. The water is steaming hot and for a long minute I just close my eyes and let it wash over me. I don’t even care that the brand stings. I try to forget what just happened. The things I said. The look on his face.
He is Dante. I know that. Part of me knew it from the first moment I saw him. I’d never forget those eyes.
I open mine then.
He lost one of his eyes. I’m sad about that fact. And as I pick up the shampoo, his shampoo, I think about how awful I was to him. How I hurt him when he’s the one person who wants to help me. Wants to save me.
But he can’t save me. And it’ll be better for him, and for me, the sooner he understands that.
I scrub my hair, smelling him all around me. That scent familiar from the bed. I shampoo twice then a third time. He doesn’t have conditioner, but I don’t care. I want to cut it off anyway. Get rid of it.
I use his bodywash too and am aware of the time so, for as much as I want to stay under that hot flow, I switch off the shower and reach for a towel. I make a turban out of it for my hair then take a second one, wrapping it around myself. At the counter I look at my reflection, feeling as tired as I look. I pick up the toothbrush that’s still in its package and brush my teeth, dry my hip gingerly then put some of the ointment on and bandage it again.
Apart from the underwear, my clothes are too wet to wear so I go to the pile of his things. They’re folded neatly. I pick a warm, oversized sweater that smells like him, pull the towel off my head and put it on. It comes to the middle of my thighs.
I go back into the bathroom then and open the drawers to look for a brush and a pair of scissors. I find neither, only a small comb with teeth too close, some shaving cream, a couple of razors. A box of condoms.
I pick those up, think about him, how he felt when he got hard.
The fact that he got hard wrestling me.
I should feel disgusted. Angry. But I don’t because I lied. He’s not like them. He’s nothing like them. And my mind naturally imagines his hands on me, his body on top of mine. His weight pressing me into the bed.
I close my eyes, setting one hand to my stomach to quiet the fluttering. I put the condoms back in the drawer and wonder what’s wrong with me. How can I even think about that? About any man in that way ever again? But everything feels different with him.
Inside another drawer I find his aftershave. Glancing quickly at the door I twist off the lid and inhale deeply. Then, before I can think better of it, I tilt the bottle, dab some onto my fingertips and press them to the pulse at my neck.
It’s weird. I have no idea why I do it. As soon as I do, I close the bottle and immediately try to wash it off when I hear footsteps.
I grab a towel and dry my hands, my heartbeat picking up.
“Mara?” It’s Matthaeus.
I set the towel back on the rack and walk out of the bedroom.
He looks me over with concern. “Give me your wet things. I’ll put them in the dryer.”
I go back into the bathroom, grab the pile of clothes on the drying rack and hand them to him. I then follow him out of the bedroom and into the living area. He opens a door off the kitchen and disappears. A moment later I hear the tumbling of a dryer.
“Did you put the ointment on?” he asks when he’s back.
“Yes.”
“I’d like to have a look at it—”
“It’s fine.” I turn to the stove where soup is bubbling in a pot. It smells wonderful and my stomach growls loudly.
“Sit down,” he says, hearing it too.
I sit at the table. A moment later, he sets a deep bowl of tomato soup with meatballs in front of me, along with a basket of bread, a dish of butter, and a glass of water.
He takes the seat across from mine with his own bowl and an already open beer. He sets the bowl down and leans back, eyeing me as he drinks from the bottle. It’s hard to hold his gaze so I focus on my soup, blowing on each spoonful and trying not to tip the bowl straight down my throat. I am so hungry.
It’s awkwardly quiet as we eat and every time I glance out the window I see how heavy the snow has gotten. I can’t help but think about Dante out there. Wonder if he’s okay.
“He risked his life to get you out,” Matthaeus says.
“He shouldn’t have.” The words are out before I can stop them but what I want to say is I’m sorry. That I know he did. But it’s not that I don’t mean what I said. Dante shouldn’t have risked his life for me because Petrov will hunt him down and kill him for taking me. “I don’t mean—”
“More?” Matthaeus gets to his feet, cutting me off.
I nod.
He takes my bowl and ladles more soup into it. I am quick to spoon up a meatball. “What I mean is Petrov will come after him,” I tell Matthaeus once he sits down again with his second bowl.
“That’s the point.”
I put my spoon down and study him. “What?”
“That’s the point,” he repeats as if I’ve just not heard.
“Then he’ll get himself killed. You know that. Petrov will kill him and you and all the others, too. You don’t know him like I do. You shouldn’t have taken me from him.”
Matthaeus sets his elbows on the table and leans toward me. Any kindness is gone as his eyes bore into mine. “I’d love to see that mother fucker try.”
I lean away, feel goosebumps rise along my arms, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end.
He grins, relaxing back in his seat. After a long minute he checks his watch. “You should go to bed.”
Guilt gnaws at me. “Do you think he’s okay?”
“Now you’re worried about him?”
I lower my lashes.
He sighs. “He’ll be fine. Just needs to blow off steam.”
“He’s all alone out there,” I say, my gaze out the window.
“I sent men to keep an eye on him. I can track him.”
“Track him?”
“I’ve known Dante a while. Know not to let him go out there alone.”
I smile a little. Well, I try to move my lips into a smile. I don’t know the last time I really smiled. Can’t remember what my own laughter sounds like.
“Thank you,” I say quickly, pushing my chair back and standing. I’m about to go into the bedroom when I see a pair of scissors hanging on a magnetic strip on the wall along with a few sharper knives.
“Don’t,” he says as if anticipating I’ll grab one of those knives.
I turn to him. “The scissors.”
“No.”
“I want to cut my hair.”
He looks confused.
“Please. I just want to cut if off.”
He studies me for a long moment, then stands, gets the scissors, and hands them to me. He follows me down the hall and into Dante’s bedroom. I guess he’s afraid I’ll hurt myself.
In the bathroom I stand in front of the mirror looking at the mess of too-long hair. It’s so knotted I just grab a handful, and, without a moment’s hesitation, I snip.
Matthaeus stands in the doorway watching, expression fixed, not giving anything away. I hack more hair off, so the end result is a not-quite even cut to my shoulders.
I set the scissors down and peer closer at my face, touch my hair. I can almost get my fingers through it now. I have never cut my own hair. Never been allowed to say what I want to do with it.
I turn to him, hold the scissors out to him. “Thank you.”
He nods, takes them from me. “Are you okay?”
It’s a strange question to ask and I’m not sure if he means about how I just hacked off my hair, or about when I was out on the street, or the last fifteen years. I don’t know how to respond so I nod.
“I’m inside if you need anything.”
“Okay,” I say, and then he’s gone. I bend to pick up the hair I cut off and drop it into the trashcan. Then I walk back into the bedroom toward the window. I turn the chair around to face out, grab the blanket off the bed and wrap myself in it, then take a seat.
Tonight, I’ll keep vigil. I’ll watch for Dante like he watched for me.