Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 120995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
“Great.” Pulling a pen from her breast pocket, she pressed the nib against the first empty box. “Are you ready to begin?”
She’d asked so softly it painted a scenario as if I was a child lost in a busy supermarket and she was merely trying to find out who I was to return me to a loved one.
I hung my head, my fingers dirt covered and scraped from clawing at the pavement while Harold kicked me.
I wished talking was easier. I wished it was first nature to answer when spoken to. But it took such effort to trust a stranger enough to give them my voice.
Carlyn Grey didn’t lose her temper, though—waiting patiently as I glanced up from my tangled hair and sighed deeply. I had to get over this. Sitting straighter, I winced as my side throbbed. “Yes, I’m ready.”
“Good.” She smiled encouragingly. Glancing at the page, she asked, “Name?”
This was it.
The moment where I ceased to be Pimlico and returned to my previous existence. I wasn’t quite ready to embrace my full name. I wasn’t quite strong enough to be a normal citizen with work worries and tax obligations. But ready or not…my journey back into the light had begun.
“Tasmin Blythe.”
The officer acted as if my name was given out freely every second of every day. And why shouldn’t she? A name was the most common thing shared. But to me…she was the first in so very long to hear it.
I should’ve told Elder.
I shouldn’t have held so much of myself back from him. All he’d asked in return for my safety was to know who I was. Why didn’t I share the name of my favourite stuffed rabbit when I was a child? Why didn’t I tell him how I’d read epic fantasies by torchlight of warrior fae and princesses, secretly wishing for my own magical fairytale?
I wanted to tell him now.
The urge was overwhelming to the point of bursting with the desire to sit him down, open up, and spill years upon years of hiding.
My heart stole all the bruises on my limbs and centred them in one location. I needed a bandage for the agony.
“Nationality?” Carolyn looked up expectantly.
“English.”
“Address?”
“Apartment Three, Century Building, Pollyworth Road, London.”
Just saying that brought back the taste of butter chicken from my local Indian takeaway and the scent of pink roses from my neighbour’s window boxes. The sound of my mother’s disapproval as I flew up the stairs rather than walked like a lady, and the heaviness of my backpack filled with textbooks from school.
“Age?”
I paused. How old was I? I was eighteen when I was stolen….
“Twenty.”
I shuddered to think I’d spent the rest of my teenage life—the years of innocence and reckless fun—locked up being sexually abused. I’d never get those years back. I’d never find that innocence again.
My breath turned raspy.
I hugged myself as a nefarious chill descended.
Carlyn noticed, her brown bob swinging around her jaw. Her hazel eyes warmed in pity. “Know what? I’ve got enough for now. Let’s get that doctor’s visit sorted, shall we?”
I didn’t look up, too swamped with old memories.
* * * * *
The rest of the day was a blur.
Officer Grey guided me into another room—this one with a medical gurney covered in pale blue sheets and a simple workstation for a doctor to dispense their advice. Waiting until I’d winced my way onto the bed, Carlyn fastened a small handcuff around my wrist to the silver frame.
I stiffened at the cold bite on my skin.
“Policy, I’m afraid.” She shrugged apologetically. “I’m going to leave you alone for a bit while I arrange for the doctor. I can’t leave you unattended and not be restrained.”
The fact she explained and acted as if she regretted cuffing me spoke volumes about her nice nature.
I forced a smile. “I understand.”
She left me to my heartache, reappearing a little while later with another female in tow. Carlyn left the moment she’d given instructions to perform an overall check-up, granting me privacy.
The exam started off fine.
The doctor—after telling me her name was Michelle Annaz—asked questions on where I’d been hit and kicked. She politely asked to inspect me and pulled up my dress to reveal the fresh contusions rapidly blooming over my hips and thighs. She ran her hands over my joints and ligaments, and while I locked my jaw to prevent squirming away from her unwanted touch, her face slowly fell from polite professionalism to concern.
She eyed my many scars.
She traced my many abuse-given imperfections.
Unlike Carlyn Grey, her eyes held deeper laugh lines, and silver threads decorated her dark hair. Her tanned skin spoke of an island life on this party destination, but the shrewd calculation in her gaze said she missed nothing.
She certainly didn’t miss anything regarding me.
Oh, no…
Removing her rubber gloves, Dr Annaz stepped back. For a moment, she didn’t speak, but then with a thread of unquestionable authority, she said calmly, “You’ve been hurt a lot in your past.”