Page 61 of Terror at the Gates

I disappeared into the bathroom and turned on the shower. As the water warmed, I undressed and inspected my body. I checked my neck first, where Zahariev had noticed something wrong, and found red marks in the shape of fingertips. They were also on my arm—five perfect ovals, dark in color. They would be bruises by tomorrow.

I felt around my ribs where the gun had been jabbed into my side. There was no mark, but the area was sore.

As my hands passed over my skin, I was reminded of how those men had handled me, how Kane had touched me and kindled his lust. I thought about how they had brought me before my first abuser, and suddenly I felt like I was shaking from the inside out, and a terror I had buried long ago roared to life.

I climbed into the shower, body vibrating, and scrubbed myself until all I could feel or focus on was the stinging pain of raw skin. I didn’t know how many times I washed and rinsed, but at some point, Zahariev knocked on the door.

“You okay?” he asked.

I could feel the thickness gathering in the back of my throat, the tears welling in my eyes. I tried to swallow thefeelings so he wouldn’t be able to tell I was breaking down, but when I spoke, my voice was still hoarse.

“I’m fine.”

There was a pause. “Do you need me?”

His question broke me, tore open my chest, and brought me to the floor. I slid to the bottom of the tub, drew my knees to my chest, and sobbed.

“Lilith?”

There was another pause, and then I heard Zahariev open the door. I got to my feet and pushed the curtain aside. I fell into him, and he caught me as I wrapped my arms and legs around him, clinging to him like I never had before.

“I’ve got you,” he said, his voice a fervent whisper.

I believed him. I knew him.

He was constant.

For a few brief moments, I felt out of control, shaking as each guttural sob rippled from the most damaged parts of me.

And then it was over, like a tap had been turned off.

Maybe I had nothing left. I wasn’t really sure.

In the aftermath, I became aware of myself, the way I’d wound my wet and naked body around Zahariev, but I didn’t have the energy to be embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “Better?”

I nodded before pulling away, and Zahariev let me slide to the ground. I wrapped my arms around myself, not to hide but because I was cold. Zahariev handed me a towel.

“I’ll wait outside,” he said.

Once I was alone, I turned off the shower, dried, and got dressed.

When I left the bathroom, I found Zahariev sitting on theedge of my bed. He was shirtless, the sound of our shrieking dryer filling the apartment.

“It’s probably going to take three hours for your clothes to dry,” I said.

“I don’t have anywhere to be,” he said.

“You’re a liar, Zahariev,” I said.

“If you say so, little love.” A brief smile touched his lips, but then his eyes shifted, narrowing on my arm. He had spotted my other injuries. I tried to cover it as I approached and crawled into bed. Zahariev didn’t move, but he also wasn’t looking at me. His jaw was popping, his anger renewed.

“Are you going to tell my father?” I asked.

“No,” he said, his voice quiet. “But he’ll find out…eventually.”