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When we’re done, Fredrik stands me in front of the steam-laden mirror, his chest and pelvic area touching me lightly from behind. He’s hard, but still he doesn’t lose self-control and it only makes me want him more.
I feel the tip of his finger tracing the scars on my back. Then he dips his head and his lips fall on them, one by one.
“Can you tell me where you got these scars?” he asks, kissing another one.
The question throws me off. Not because he asked, but because…I can’t remember.
“I…I don’t really know.”
It frustrates me wholly. I thought I had remembered everything about my past. How could I not remember something as unforgettable as the scars on my back? Fredrik always touches them. Since the first night he brought me here, he’s always had an interest in them. He would lie me on my stomach across my bed downstairs and gently pull my nightgown up to my shoulders. He would trace his fingers across the scars—just as he’s doing now. And then the tip of his tongue as if he were tasting and savoring a memory. I never knew the scars were there until I asked him what it was about my back that he seemed to treasure so much.
“It’s all right,” he says raising his head. “You don’t have to remember everything.”
I feel like he’s somewhat relieved that I don’t know. But that’s ridiculous. Why would he be relieved that I couldn’t remember any part of my past when we’ve both fought so hard and for so long to unravel everything?
I brush it off and smile to myself, thinking of only him. Of us. Being here together.
But then scars flash across my mind that I do remember. Absently, I finger the ones on my thighs—six on each side—cut in a perfect horizontal line three inches across. Fredrik’s hand touches mine, moving it away from them—the scars he made when he tortured me in that chair on the other side of the basement.
“I’m sorry I did that to you,” he says, his voice laced heavily with sadness and regret and shame and guilt. “I don’t want you to forgive me. Because I’ll never forgive myself.”
“But I do—”
He places his fingers over my lips. Instantly I’m compelled to shut my eyes and kiss them, but I don’t.
“Things will be different from now on,” he says with his lips against the side of my neck. Then I feel a soft towel rubbing gently against my back as he begins to dry me off.
“Fredrik,” I say almost in a whisper, “what made you change your mind?”
He squeezes the ends of my hair with the towel, soaking the water into the thick cotton.
“None of that matters,” he says. “I don’t want you to think about any of that.”
“But what about Seraphina?” I ask quietly, nervously.
His hands stop moving and I feel him sigh behind me.
“Most of all,” he says regretfully, “I don’t want you to worry about her.”
“But she’s looking for me. And I know you can protect me, but I’m still terrified of her. I’m most afraid when you’re gone. When it’s just me and Greta here.”
I feel the towel drop and then his hands cupping my upper arms. He kisses the top of my head, standing so much taller than me. And I know that it’s just an affectionate gesture, but I can’t help but feel it’s also one of regret, or maybe even grief.
“Cassia, would you believe me if I told you she couldn’t hurt you if you didn’t think about her?”
I start to turn around to face him, but he carefully holds me still. Then he reaches out a hand and swipes it through the thick layer of moisture covering the large mirror.
My hands begin to shake, though I don’t know why. My stomach ties into a nervous knot and I feel sick all of a sudden, my nerves frayed. I look down at the counter.
“I…I don’t know,” I stutter uneasily. “H-How would that keep her from finding me?”
I don’t know what’s happening to me…but I don’t like it.
Fredrik continues to wipe the steam away from the mirror. I continue to look down.
He stops and drops his arm, fitting both hands on my sides, just above my naked hips.
“Well, I think you let her get to you too much, love.” My heart leaps inside my chest every time he calls me that. “I want you to stop worrying about her. Just stop thinking about her and live your life. The way you are now. A prisoner to no one. Not to me, or to Seraphina. Can you do that?”
Reluctantly, I nod.
Then I turn to face him, putting my back to the mirror.
Pushing up on my toes, I kiss his warm and delicious lips.
He smiles.
“I think I can do that,” I say and smile back at him.
He makes me breakfast and we sit together at the kitchen table like a married couple, both of us with a mug of hot coffee, Fredrik peering down at the day’s newspaper. But I can’t help but make note of how much of that newspaper he doesn’t seem to be reading because he keeps raising his eyes from it to smile—to grin—across the table at me.
I feel like a teenager with my first crush all over again, my face flush with emotion.
We talk for the longest time about everything and nothing. And sometimes I find myself lost in his deep and precious voice. I could listen to him talk all day and I’d never get bored or want any interruptions.
By the time breakfast is over, I’ve changed my mind about going to New York. Not only because it’s ridiculous to go three hours away for a hot dog, but because despite Fredrik asking me to stop worrying about Seraphina, I can’t. And New York was where she tried to kill me. She plagues my thoughts and haunts my memories.
“Why don’t you want to go?” Fredrik asks.
I lower my gaze because I was never any good at lying and say, “I just want to stay in Maryland.” I laugh lightly for good measure. “I’ve been here for a long time and I’ve never seen anything outside of this house.”
Fredrik frowns.
I smile and say, “Oh no, love, I’m not blaming you,” to assure him.
Something flickered in his eyes when I called him ‘love’.
Why did I call him that? It doesn’t matter. I like it. And it feels right. Natural.
He flattens the newspaper on the table and looks at me inquiringly. “So then if not New York, where would you like to go?” His gorgeous smile broadens. “I’m yours all day long.”
My face flushes again.
“Why don’t you pick a place?”
He purses his lips.
I want to kiss them…
Fredrik
It’s all an illusion, the voice in the back of my mind constantly tells me as I sit across from Cassia in the finest restaurant in all of Baltimore. It’s all an illusion: The two of us. Sitting here together like this. Like any normal couple would. It’s an illusion, Fredrik. Over and over again. Because I have yet to let myself believe it. A part of me doesn’t want to believe it. The old Fredrik. And the even older one. The parts of me that I’ve only ever known. What is this strange light I feel when in Cassia’s presence?
It must be what a normal life feels like.
And while I feel a great sense of contentment, the light scares the hell out of me just the same.
An illusion, the darkness within me taunts. This kind of life was never meant for you, so don’t fall for it, or what’s left of your life will come crashing down around you into pieces so small that they can never be put back together again. Shut the fuck up!
Cassia’s smile is so vibrant, yet so fragile that I feel the smallest touch of darkness can easily wash it away. She’s wearing a pretty white sweater that fits loosely about her shoulders, revealing the softness of her collarbone and long, dainty neck. An elongated gray skirt clings to her hourglass form, down past her knees and drapes over a pair of tall black winter boots. I took her shopping when we left the house this morning. She was shy and at first didn’t want me to buy her things. So, I picked out outfits for her to wear and bought them anyway. And I dressed her. And while I dressed her, I kissed the scars on her back like I’ve always done. Scars left by cuts that I put there over time, one by one, as I made love to Seraphina.