“Come in,” a soft voice calls from the other side. I close my eyes at the sound. Her voice is deeper, less high-pitched and more feminine.
Gripping the doorknob with my bandaged hand, I twist and push open the door. At first, I don’t see her, and a second of panic chokes me. A rustling of clothes comes from my left, and my eyes dart that way.
The curtains are mostly closed and the light is off, but it’s still easy for me to make out her figure rising from a chair in the corner. I saw her standing outside The Hill, and again when she came inside, but I’m still no less shocked. Besides those two times, the last time I was with her, she was ten and so damn small. While her frame is still small, she’s a grown woman now, no longer the girl who was innocent despite the horrific things she was forced to do.
Her thick dark-brown hair is long and straight, her complexion pale against the dark strands. Her slightly slanted green eyes watch me warily, as if she’s unsure of my reaction to her. She has on a pair of black skinny jeans and a black shirt with the sleeves so long they cover half of her palms. She’s paired her outfit with black boots that come to mid-thigh. Both the jeans and shirt do nothing to hide the womanly curves of her body.
I try to look past the obvious visual of her and search for any physical marks or scars of any kind. I don’t find any, but that doesn’t mean jack shit. She could be hiding all her imperfections.
I’m rendered speechless, having no idea what to say to her. What is there to say when you’re faced with the girl you were forced to rape repeatedly when she was just a kid? The same girl you thought was dead for twenty-four years.
Her eyes flicker down to my bandaged hand, and I hope like fuck she doesn’t ask me what happened. I won’t lie to her, but I would hate giving her the truth.
When she opens her mouth and I hear her voice face-to-face for the first time in twenty-four years, it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.
“Hello, Aziah.”
CHAPTER TWO
RELLA
ALL I CAN DO IS STARE AT HIM. The boy who played a vital role in m
y disturbing childhood is standing not even ten feet away. Equal amounts of awe, fear, and elation flow through my limbs. I want to run to him and beg him to hold me, but I also want to run away.
It’s not him I fear; I’ve never been afraid of Aziah. It’s the pain of my past, a past that’s connected to him, that petrifies me. He was just as much of a victim as I was, and I’ve never held him accountable for the things his dad made him do to me, but even so, when I see Aziah, I see his dad. I feel the phantom pain of being violated.
He’s so much bigger than I remember. Not as tall and muscular as my brother, but still very much imposing. His black hair is longer, several clumps hanging over his forehead and almost in his eyes. The pure blackness of his eyes sends a shiver down my spine. He’s wearing all black, just like me. The expression on his face suggests he’s just as wary as I am.
My eyes slide down to the hand wrapped in gauze. I’m curious what happened to him. The bandage wasn’t there when I saw him inside The Hill a couple of hours ago.
My throat feels thick. What if he doesn’t want to see me? Maybe I remind him of a past he wants to forget too? But I heard him downstairs. I heard him breaking things and yelling. I heard the desperation in his voice when we first arrived and Trouble whisked me upstairs to this room. He sounded upset and mad, almost manic.
I lick my dry lips and open my mouth to speak. At first, I can’t get the words out. It’s been so long since I’ve used his name.
“Hello, Aziah.”
He closes his eyes, and I’m momentarily stunned at the peaceful look that crosses his face. Even as a young child, despite the disturbing situations we were forced into, I’ve always felt a closeness to him. I loved my brother, JW, and Judge, but what I felt for Aziah was different. Regardless of him being smack dab in the middle of my nightmare, he was my champion. Trouble protected me as much as he could, and I knew he would do anything to take away my pain, but Aziah was always there with me. He experienced the same horror I did.
Aziah opens his eyes, his expression moving from calm to once again tortured. His back hits the wall and he slides down with his knees drawn to his chest. His position reminds me of a small child, huddling his body as tightly as he can.
I don’t like looking down at him, so I sit down on the floor and mirror his position, except I hug my legs and rest my chin on my knees.
“You were dead,” he whispered brokenly. “We buried you.”
My chest aches at the blatant pain he’s feeling.
“How…?” He stops when his voice cracks.
I know I have a lot of explaining to do. This is a shock for everyone. As much as I don’t want to talk about it, it’s something I owe him. I haven’t told Trouble yet, much to his frustration. I don’t know why, but I wanted Aziah to be the first to know.
“I’m not sure.” I close my eyes and think back to that day. The pain of the knife sliding over my wrists. The blissful feeling it gave me, knowing my nightmare was almost over. And the agony that came afterward. I open my eyes and look at him. “After I… slit my wrists, I blacked out. I woke up a few days later in a dark room. At first, I didn’t know where I was. I remembered slitting my wrists and couldn’t understand why I was still alive. My whole body hurt so badly I could barely move, and when I tried, I couldn’t. My arms were held down by thick straps. So were my legs. I screamed so loud that it hurt my ears. That was when Dr. Manor came into the room, and I realized I was in his office. He injected something in my arm, and that’s all I remember until a week later, when I woke up somewhere else. I wasn’t in Sweet Haven anymore.”
Torment creeps across Aziah’s face, and I feel his pain like it’s my own. “I heard you,” he croaks. “I fuckin’ heard you,” he says louder, anger mixing with his pain. “I thought I was losing my mind, but I wasn’t. It was you. Fuck!”
His legs drop down flat and one of his hands frantically moves to his pocket, digging inside and pulling something out. He fists whatever it is and squeezes his eyes closed. I watch helplessly as his features twist in affliction.
My eyes widen when a drop of blood from his fist drips to the floor. What in the world is in his hand? The need to go to him and somehow soothe away his pain is great, but I hold my spot on the floor, afraid to get too close.