You call this fate?

Chapter 32

We left Zayn tied up where he was.

Judging from the general purpose of the room and the unawareness of the house's owners, I calculated at least a week before anyone other than a curious servant would find him. And the servants had been paid well to not be curious. By the time someone did find him, he would have had escaped, a little worse for wear but breathing, unfortunately. Christopher had been able to convince Mr. Rodwell he wasn't worth the risk.

On the way back to the penthouse, we stopped at a drug store. Tasha helped me to the little bathroom in the back and then ran inside to grab Band-Aids, ointment and some concealer. I stayed leaning against the wall besides the sink, staring at the grime encrusted, broken toilet bowl. The seat was down. Regardless, through a crack on the surface, I could see some interesting things inside. But there was nothing left in me to throw up.

I didn't look at the mirror.

When Tasha came back in, a crackly plastic back in her hand, she stopped a moment at the door. "Zara?"

I looked up at her and smiled. My mouth hurt. "Yes?"

"Are you okay?" she asked softly.

I still smiled. "Not at all."

She came forward uncertainly and placed the bag on the sink. Then she just stood back and let me have my space. She didn't touch me. I appreciated that very much.

"You know," I said, going back to staring at the toilet bowl, "I am really tired."

"It's all going to end soon," she promised, like I knew she would.

"I thought that too, and then this happened." I touched my swollen lips.

"It will all get better," she insisted lamely.

I smiled again. Of course everything would get better. How could it not? How did they say it? The morning comes only after the thickest part of night? There's a day coming after every night? I wondered if the people who said this had ever had any personal proof to what they proclaimed. Did they really see the light after dark? Did they? Because if they did, I would like to meet them. I would like to sit with them and ask them to teach me to see it too. Because at the moment, all I could see was shadows around me.

"Let me fix you up," Tasha offered after a moment of very deep silence.

I was tempted to tell her that she couldn't, but then I let it drop. What was the use of being such a pessimist? Of course there would be light after the dark! All the grand old-agers said so. They would know, won't they?

"Okay," I consented. Grabbing the sink, I slowly hobbled in front of it and looked up at the mirror. I almost lost my recently acquired resolve.

"Shit," I hissed.

The bruises I had been expecting. The scratches too. Even the hickeys. What I hadn't been expecting was how horrendous all of them looked together.

My lips were swollen to twice their normal size and were a dark maroon, like two giant blood filled ticks. The upper lip was busted open at the side and a thin line of clotted blood ran down to the chin. The sides of my mouth and the undersides of my jaw had dark finger marks on them, as did my cheeks. There were nail scratches at the sides of my face. A line of dark wound marks marched down my throat.

A demented laugh escaped my lips. It hurt. "Tell me, Tasha, did I just get kissed or mauled by a dog?"

"I don't know," she replied harshly, not in the mood for jokes. I could almost feel the need to start bawling exuding off her in thick waves. She grabbed the bag and started digging inside.