Chapter 97

Christian waits for me at the front of the car as I gather myself together and open the door, stepping out. I wince a little as I stand up straight, unsure if the stiffness I feel is the result of sleeping in a car for hours or of the very literal beating I took.

Either way, as I shut my door and walk to Christian’s side, I realize that I’m still very exhausted – emotionally and physically. Christian probably senses it - sees it in my slow steps, my hesitant smile - because he reaches out a hand for me as I draw near. I take it, slipping my smaller hand into his, and together we walk up the short three steps to the cottage’s front porch.

Christian enters a code on the little beach cottage’s front door – the key pad probably the most modern thing in sight amongst all the weathered wood, the charming craftsman details. But it beeps readily under his touch and Christian turns the knob, pushing the door open and gesturing for me to enter first.

I shiver a bit as I walk in – because it’s just as cold in here as it is outside, and I certainly don’t have a coat. “Awhile since you’ve been here, Chris?”

“Yes,” he murmurs, stepping away from me for a moment to fiddle with the thermostat on the wall. “It’ll take a minute to warm up, but it should all be in working order. I pay quite a bit of money to make sure all the gas and electric lines are kept in good order.”

I give Christian a noncommittal hum as he presses the buttons, and I listen quietly as the radiators start to click and buzz as they warm up. As Christian moves around the kitchen, testing the stove to make sure the gas is on, I gaze around the sweet little bungalow, the majority of which is one large beachy room, sparsely furnished with comfortable, loungey furniture. I smile a little as I look – it’s…very unlike the penthouse in which we’ve been living.

This place – it seems so homey, so personal. Like it’s been loved and lived in for years. I take a small step into the room, feeling a little shy, and glance into the small bedroom where I can see the entrance to a bathroom as well as a big king-sized bed with a fluffy white duvet. My eyes travel last, and perhaps inevitably, to the long stretch of windows on the eastern and southern walls, all of which have dark shades drawn down them.

“Can I open the blinds?” I ask, my voice soft.

“Of course,” Christian says, walking softly to my side and giving me a shrug. “You can do whatever you want here, Iris. I want you to…make yourself at home.”

I give him a little smile and move quietly to the furthest shade on the left, pulling it up. My breath catches a little when I take in the view – just…a perfect snapshot of the sand, and then the ocean, stretching out for miles and miles. Unable to stop myself, I move to the next window and open that shade, and then the next, and then the next.

When it’s all done, I step back, marveling a little at the incredible view of the ocean stretched out before me. It’s…so simple, and yet so stunning.

“There’s a porch,” Christian murmurs from his spot by the door, where he’s loading some firewood into a little metal stove. “It doesn’t have a roof, but you can sit out there and basically be on the beach. We can do that tomorrow, if it warms up.”

I hmm again, crossing my arms and just staring at the window, watching the night fade over the ocean, watching the dying light of the setting sun catch on the glimmering waves.

And then my breath hitches, and I feel the tears down my cheeks, and I find myself a bit shocked.

Because when on earth did I start crying?

“Iris?” Christian murmurs, hearing me and immediately abandoning his task of lighting a fire to come to my side.

“No, I’m sorry,” I say, laughing at myself a little, brushing at my cheeks. Because honestly, I don’t know what’s come over me. “Please – don’t let me interrupt – I…um. I guess I’m just a little overwrought? And it’s just so…beautiful…”

Christian comes close and places his hands on my shoulders as I turn my head to look again out the window. And that’s it, I suddenly realize – the beauty of this place is just so shocking, jarring, in comparison to where I was less than a day ago. Being beaten by men who didn’t care if I lived or died, wishing I was dead.

God, if this can all change so quick, could it happen again?

Twenty-four hours from now, will I again be a captive, again be beaten?

I start to shake, just slightly, at the terror of not knowing. Of having absolutely no control.

“Oh, Daisy,” Christian murmurs, sorrowful, and then he gathers me close to him, one arm going tight around my shoulders while the other cups the back of my head, tucking it close against him. I bury my face against his chest, wincing a little at the bruises, and then I have a good little cry while Christian holds me tight.

Christian shushes to me, lightly, but I don’t feel any censure in it – he’s not telling me to stop crying, or even trying to get me to stop. He’s just making soft, comforting noises while I cry myself out. And when I finish up, and sniff, and raise my embarrassed face to peek at him a little, he’s looking down at me with such soft tenderness in his expression that my heart swells.

“Sorry I got your shirt all wet,” I murmur, sniffing again, glancing down at where my tears have stained the front of his button-down.

“Don’t worry too much, it’s already covered in the blood of my enemies,” he murmurs. “I think this one’s destined for the trash.”

I burst out laughing at that – at the casual way in which he says the ridiculous truth, and he grins down at me, I think pleased to see me coming around.

“Come on,” he says, dropping the hand from the back of my head but keeping the other around my shoulders as he gestures towards the bedroom and the bathroom beyond. “Let’s get you fixed up.”

I nod, not really knowing what he means but following anyway. Christian leads me into the bathroom then and takes charge, wetting a washcloth before he lifts me bodily so that I sit on the edge of the sink and swing my legs like a kid. I grin a little at this while he gets out a first-aid kit and starts to patch me up.

As Christian moves over me from top to bottom, washing blood off my face and ensuring that any cuts are cleaned and – if necessary – bandaged, he chats lightly about buying this house, and the things he did to fix it up, and what it’s like in the summer. It’s all banal, useless stuff – but it keeps both of our minds off of the very grim reality of our situation.

As he moves his attention down my body from my face to my arms, I see a darkness grow in him, evident in the tension in his jaw, the lines in his face. Christian, I realize, is angry – livid, really – that anyone put their hands on me. And right now he’s working very hard to keep his rage from me, knowing that it will just stress me out more.

But I can’t help smiling just a little, because it’s kind of nice to have someone fall into a dark, murderous rage because someone dared to hurt me.

I know that I should shy away from the violent side of this man, my best friend…but, well. In this case. It’s kind of nice.

“Okay,” Christian murmurs, snapping the first-aid kit shut and taking my chin between his fingers for a moment, lightly tilting my head from side to side so that he can study his handywork. “I think that should hold you over for now, until we can get some food into you. Unless…” he steps back a little, letting his eyes move over me. “Did they…hurt you anywhere I’m not seeing right now?”

I bite my lip a little and shake my head, knowing what he’s asking.