She wanted to curl up in my arms.
I caught her, weak, defenseless and terrified, and squeezed her hard against my chest. She was trembling and her body was as cold as a corpse. I got her out of the road and onto the sidewalk.
‘I’ve remembered. I know who the white owl is.’ Her voice was a thin, high screech. She began to sob as if her heart was broken and would never again mend.
I felt waves of pity and anger wash into my chest simultaneously. I did not know what she had remembered, but I didn’t care. I was not her hypnotist. I was her man. I didn’t care what she had done in the past—she was my woman and I loved her with every fiber of my being. I’d die before I’d let anyone hurt her.
She’d come back to herself and that was enough. She was out of the labyrinth of her mind. The maze had not led her to the minotaur. It had brought her to me.
I stroked her hair tenderly.
‘Do you know?’ she asked.
I frowned. ‘No,’ I said. ‘You never could go all the way.’
‘It’s too horrible to tell,’ she whispered into my chest.
‘It’s all right. It’s all right,’ I repeated again and again.
She looked up at me, her eyes blurred with tears. I took my jacket off and put it over her shoulders. ‘I’m taking you home,’ I said.
24
Olivia
I tried to stand, but my knees gave way and I would have fallen to the ground if he had not caught me. He put his strong arms under my knees and back and carried me to his car.
In the car I turned my face away from him. The whole time he knew. I felt tainted and filled with self-loathing. Shame was like a thorn bush growing deep inside my chest. Stretching, blooming, willfully tearing, carelessly drawing blood.
I remembered his silky, seductive voice. ‘You have escaped the cage. Your wings are stretched out. Now fly.’
Maybe one day I would thank him for showing me these things about myself. Not today. Today I was too cut up. I had believed that I belonged with him, you see. I had believed that I belonged to him. I was the tattoo on his body.
The journey seemed to be over very fast. He opened my side of the door and gathered me to him. He held me so close I could feel his heartbeat. As steady as a Swiss watch. He carried me up the stairs.
‘You’re cold,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you in bed.’
‘No, I need a shower. I’m dirty.’
‘You’re not dirty. You’re the cleanest person I know.’
‘I need a shower,’ I said, my voice breaking.
He carried me straight into the shower. When he put me down I swayed slightly and he tightened his hold on my body. The tiles were cold under my feet. I shivered from the loss of his body warmth. He stripped me quickly. Goose bumps peppered my skin.
‘I know. I know you’re cold,’ he murmured soothingly. Still holding onto me he leaned away from me. I heard the sound of water splashing and then he was gently guiding me under the hot stream. I sighed. Barely able to move I closed my eyes. He was still holding onto my forearms. Strength seeped from his hands into my skin. I felt safe. For the first time in a very long time I felt safe. Utterly safe.
Tears began to flow out of my eyes. I thought he wouldn’t know. Not with the water rushing over my face, but he said softly, ‘Don’t cry, princess. No more tears for you. I’m here now.’
That only made me cry even harder. My body shuddered with sobs. He held me as I bawled my eyes out. I cried for ages until I was exhausted. I slumped onto his chest. He made a move. He was going to take me out.
‘Soap. I’m still filthy,’ I whispered.
He pressed me against his body. ‘You’re not filthy,’ he snarled.
‘Soap,’ I breathed weakly.
His jaw was clenched tight but he leaned me against the tiles and reached for the soap. It smelt of apples. Clean. Fresh. Crisp. Everything I was not. With gentle circles he washed my soiled shoulders, my dirty neck, my gross arms, my foul forearms, my lusty hands, my unclean fingers. All those wicked men. I had let them all abuse me. I had been wet and sticky for their perverted desires. I had let them fuck me. I had let them come inside me. Grubby, grubby Olivia. I didn’t deserve this clean, wonderful man.
Tenderly, he did my breasts, letting the bar slide over my nipple. I wanted to thrust forward, but I was too ashamed, too polluted to touch a man like him. The soap traveled across to my armpits, down to my ribs, my stomach, my hips.
When he reached the unspeakably mucky, disgusting area between my legs he began to slide the soap through the curls. Slowly he rubbed his hand on the mound until it lathered creamy and white. He gently cleaned between the creases. My thighs drifted open of their own accord. This was the part that reeked of all the other men. This was the dirtiest part. He must have understood because he spent more time washing it. When his palm made contact with my clit, the sensation was electric and I jumped with shock.