They continued up to the third floor, the stairs ending in a large open space. A window lined the back wall, in front of it stood a table with two plush gray chairs. The other three walls held doors leading to bedrooms, but the area itself was packed full of bookcases. Hundreds of dusty books lined the shelves. Haven stared in shock, having never dreamed of seeing so many before.
“Our library,” Dr. DeMarco said. “It doesn’t get much use and I imagine it still won’t, considering Antonelli said you couldn’t read.”
Haven could feel his eyes on her, but she remained quiet and didn’t meet his gaze.
A door opened nearby and a boy stepped out from one of the bedrooms. He was tall and lanky, with shaggy brown hair. Dr. DeMarco turned to him. “Dominic, this is, uh . . . She’s going to be staying here.”
Dominic eyed her curiously. “Hey.”
“Hello, sir,” she said, her voice shaky.
His laughter echoed through the room. “Oh, that won’t do. Just call me Dom.”
Dom headed downstairs as Dr. DeMarco led her across the library, striding past the middle door without a word and stopping at the last. “This is where you’ll sleep. Go in. I’ll be back.”
Haven hesitantly stepped inside. The furniture, the curtains, and the carpet were all plain, everything a dull white with dustings of wood. Most of the house held the same effect, the walls empty and rooms uncluttered. There were no pictures and no knick-knacks, nothing to hold any sentimental value. Nothing to give her any idea of what type of people she was dealing with.
She still stood just inside the doorway when Dr. DeMarco returned with a pile of clothes. “They’ll be big, but at least they’re clean.”
She took them. “Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Get cleaned up and settle in. This is your home now, too.”
He’d said it again. Home. She had lived with the Antonellis her entire life and never heard it referred to as home.
Dr. DeMarco walked away but stopped after a few steps. “Oh, and help yourself to anything in the kitchen if you’re hungry, but don’t try to burn down my house. Doing so won’t get you a code any faster. I’ll let you burn to death before I let you outsmart me.”
* * *
Haven ran her hand along the fluffy comforter. She’d never had a bed before, much less a bedroom of her own. Her nights in Blackburn had been spent in the stables, in a back stall on a worn-down mattress with some of the springs exposed. The temperature was comfortable there at night, so she hadn’t had much use for blankets, one of the ratty covers they kept for the horses enough for the occasions it did get cold. She preferred not to use them, because they were itchy on her skin, nothing like the material against her fingertips now.
After stripping out of her old clothes, Haven went into the connecting bathroom. A large tub sat in the corner with a long counter and a sink across from it, a rectangular mirror on the wall above the sink.
Hesitantly, Haven surveyed her reflection, her sunken cheeks and the cuts covering her face. A bruise ran along the right side of her jaw while blood caked her hairline from a gash in her forehead.
It was like a layer of dirt had settled on her body, tinting her skin a slightly darker shade, but it wasn’t enough to cover her scars. There were dozens she could see and even more on her back, constant reminders of what she’d been through. The bruises faded and sometimes so did the memories, but the scars . . . the scars remained.
She drew a bath and slid into it, hissing as the scalding water came into contact with her skin. She scrubbed every inch of her body raw as tears pooled in her eyes, overwhelmed and unsure about what would come of her. Dr. DeMarco had been civilized, but she wasn’t fooled by his gentle voice and small tokens of independence. Nothing came without a price. While Dr. DeMarco might not have looked like a monster, she wasn’t naïve enough to believe one didn’t live inside of him, lurking under the surface.
Experience told her one always did.
She got out after the water cooled and found a towel in a small cabinet. It smelled like flowers and was soft against her skin as she wrapped it around her body. Heading back into the bedroom, she grabbed the clothes and slipped on the black flannel pants. They hung limp on her frail form, and she had to roll them up to keep them in place. She grabbed a white t-shirt and unfolded it, noticing the football on the front. Turning it over, she flinched at the big black number 3 covering the back.
* * *
Time passed slowly as sleep evaded Haven. She huddled under the blanket, trying to find comfort, but the stillness was unsettling. It was too new, too foreign. A prickly sensation crept across her skin as the walls closed in on her, hunger and anxiety taking its toll.
In the early morning hours, it got to be too much, and she quietly slipped downstairs. The hallways were dark, but she noticed a subtle glow of light in the kitchen. Tiptoeing to the doorway, she peeked inside and saw a boy in front of the refrigerator. He was a few inches taller than her, his skin the color of coffee with a lot of extra cream. A few days’ worth of stubble accented his sharp features, and his thick hair was dark, shorter on the sides than on the top. His gray shirt hugged his chest, the short sleeves shoved up to his shoulders. Ink marked his right arm, a tattoo she couldn’t make out in the darkness, and he had on a pair of pants identical to the ones she wore.
He drank juice from a glass, unaware of her presence, and Haven took a step back to flee. The movement caught his eye, and he turned in her direction, the drink slipping from his hand when he spotted her. It hit the floor and shattered, the spray of liquid soaking his pants.
Jumping back, he looked down at himself. “Shit!”
The curse sent Haven into a panic, and she darted forward to clean up the mess. He bent down at the same moment Haven dove to his feet, their heads colliding. The force knocked him backward, a piece of jagged glass stabbing him when he caught himself on the floor. He cursed again as blood oozed from the small gash and stuck his wounded thumb into his mouth. She noticed, as she looked at him, a scar running through his right eyebrow, slicing it in half.
His gaze lifted, a pair of vibrant green eyes greeting Haven, intense passion swirling in the color that took her breath away. She broke eye contact, her chest tightening as she snatched a towel from the counter to clean up the juice. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she pushed the glass into a pile, but she was disrupted when his hand seized her wrist. She yelped at the zap of static electricity, and he blinked rapidly, just as caught off guard.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked, gripping her tightly.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Please don’t punish me.”
Before either could get out another word, the overhead light flicked on and Dr. DeMarco’s harsh voice rang out. “Let her go!”
The boy dropped her wrist so fast it was as if he’d been savagely burned. “Sorry,” he said, the word barely audible as he climbed to his feet.
Haven struggled to breathe as Dr. DeMarco poured a glass of water from the faucet and handed it to her. “Drink,” he commanded. She forced the water down and gagged, her stomach more interested in expelling its contents. “What happened here?”
They replied at the same time, answering in sync. “It was an accident.”
“It won’t happen again, sir,” Haven continued. “I swear.”
Dr. DeMarco blinked a few times. “It’s not often two people accept blame around here.”
As if on cue, the boy spoke again. “Yeah, well, it wasn’t really my fault. She scared me. She’s a f**king ninja or something.”
Dr. DeMarco pinched the bridge of his nose. “Watch your mouth, son. Go get ready for school.”
He started to argue, but Dr. DeMarco’s hand shot up to silence him. The sudden movement startled Haven. She recoiled, bracing to be struck.
The boy eyed her strangely. “What the hell’s wrong with—?”
“I said go!” Dr. DeMarco said. “I don’t have time for you.”
“Fine, what-the-fuck-ever.”
Dr. DeMarco turned to her after the boy stormed out. “He isn’t usually . . . well, never mind; that’s a lie. He is usually like this. He’s finicky and angry, but that’s neither here nor there. He’s set in his ways, and it doesn’t matter what I do. Carmine is who he is.”
Carmine. A strange name for a strange boy.
“Why are you up, anyway?” he asked. “I figured you’d sleep most of the day to recover.”
“I didn’t know what time I was supposed to get up.”
“You get up whenever you get up,” he said. “You can go back to bed now.”
“But what about—?”
He didn’t let her finish. “I’ll handle this. Don’t worry about doing anything today. Just rest.”
2
“I need a favor.”
Carmine stepped past his father, refusing to acknowledge he’d spoken. The scent of freshly brewed coffee was strong in the kitchen as Vincent cleaned the sticky mess from the floor. The knees of his newest Armani suit were soaked with juice, and Carmine got a tiny bit of satisfaction from that fact.
“Are you ignoring me now, son?”
“Oh, are you talking to me? I thought you didn’t have time for me this morning.”
Vincent stood. “I certainly don’t have time for your attitude, but I do need a favor.”
“Of course you do.”
Vincent pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to him. “Ask Dia if she’ll grab this stuff after school today. I’d do it myself, but I know nothing about things teenage girls need.”
Carmine laughed. “I don’t think Dia knows shit about teenage girls, either.”
“She knows enough,” he said. “Just do it.”
Carmine shoved it into his pocket. “Whatever. Is it for the ninja girl? Who is she, anyway?”
“Do you honestly care?”
“No.” The word came out before he gave it any thought. He wasn’t sure what to think.
“Then it doesn’t matter who she is,” Vincent said. “But she needs things, so don’t forget to ask Dia.”
“I heard you the first time,” he said. “It would’ve been nice to have some warning you were bringing someone here, though. Where’d she come from?”
Vincent poured some coffee into his silver travel mug. “I thought you didn’t care.”
“I don’t.”
“Then again—it doesn’t matter,” he said. “All that matters is she’s here now.”
“Whatever.”
“Whatever,” Vincent mimicked him, shaking his head. “It’s nice to see the money I paid to send you to Benton Academy made you more articulate.”
Carmine shuddered at the mention of that place.
He’d landed in trouble the year before—trouble that could have ruined his life—but his father had pulled some strings to get him out of it. He hadn’t exactly been forgiving, though, and had shipped him to a boarding school across the country for a semester. Carmine swore the moment he was on the plane heading home that nothing like it would happen again, but it was a lot easier said than done. He never went looking for it, but trouble found him every time he turned a corner.