Page 134 of Under Your Scars

“I’m sorry,” she says, looking down at her feet in shame. I put the gun away and pop my mask off, letting it fall to the ground with a thud.

“What’s the emergency?” I ask. She glances between the two racks of dresses. I scoff. “Afashionemergency.”

If I wasn’t so in love with this woman, I would strangle her.

She slumps her shoulders in feigned annoyance. “You said my dress for Travis’ wedding was heinous.”

I laugh. “I don’t think that’s the word I used, but yes, that dress was a crime against humanity.”

She shrugs. “Help me pick out a new one?”

I sit on the bench at the end of the bed, peeling off my gloves and letting them fall to the floor. I nod at her to start, and she begins trying on dress after dress. She gives me a chance to comment on each one while she looks over herself in the mirror she set up near the racks.

Forty minutes later, she emerges in a sleek black satin dress with thin straps and a plunging neckline. The twelfth just like it.

She spins in a circle. “What do you think?”

“I think you look beautiful.”

She playfully rolls her eyes. “Stop being such a diplomat. You’ve said that every time.”

“That’s because you’re beautiful.”

She huffs and then grabs another dress, disappearing to try it on. When she emerges two minutes later, my heart stops.

She’s wearing a floor-length, emerald-green velvet dress that hugs her body from her chest all the way down to her thighs. The sleeves are tiny ribbons of chiffon that drape off her shoulders in an elegant way that’s both sexy and tasteful. When she turns around, the chiffon of the sleeves connects at the center of her back and then falls to the floor in a train of delicate tulle.

“This one,” I say, my throat barely forming words. “Choose this one. You look perfect.” She gives herself another look in the mirror. “I’ll get a matching bowtie and pocket square.”

She narrows her eyes at me in the mirror. “Didn’t realize you were a ‘matching my girlfriend’ kind of guy. Where are you going to find a matching bowtie in two days?”

“Angel, never underestimate the power of a black American Express.”

She leaves to change back into her normal clothes. I stay sitting on the bench, rubbing my jaw with my fingers as anxiety turns over in my stomach. When Elena comes back out, draping her chosen dress over one of the racks, she gives me a confused look.

“What?”

I sigh. “We need to talk about the last two weeks.”

Instantly, she subconsciously hides her wrist from me and no longer allows herself to look me in the eye. “Are you mad at me?”

“Mad?” I scoff. “No, baby. I’m fucking worried about you.”

Tears well in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

I stand up and take a few steps towards her. “You don’t need to apologize, but I ambeggingyou to talk to me. You can tell me anything, Elena.”

She sniffles. “That is the problem.” She looks up with pleading eyes. “You’re theonlyperson I can talk to. Not my parents, not my brother, not even a therapist. I can’t tell anyone the truth except you and that doesn’t make me feel supported. It makes me feel alone.”

I swallow the burning lump in my throat. Her pain always,alwaysstems from me being the Silencer. She can’t talk to anyone because he’s such a big part of her story, and nobody would understand it the way I can.

She sighs. “Do you know why I cut myself?” she asks, though she doesn’t wait for my answer. “Because I wanted to be in control again. I wanted to be in control of my body, and I wanted to be in control of when and where I felt pain.”

Control. The thing she lost when she was raped. The control of her emotions, the control of her reaction to touch.

“You want to be in control,” I repeat. “Let me give it back to you.”

CHAPTER 39