Freya tenses. She pulls her knees in towards her and wraps her arms round them. She looks away from me, staring out the window.
The sun is setting in a beautiful blend of purples and oranges, but Freya’s gone somewhere dark.
I share a glance with Oz, worried she’s not going to answer when she finally speaks.
“Arthur Maxwell likes to cut,” she says softly.
Her words sink into me like a knife. My stomach swirls and it takes everything in me not to react. “Do you have scars, Angel?”
She looks away from the window and back at me, her arms still hugging her knees. “It’s not pretty.”
I keep my gaze steady. “We’re FBI agents, Freya. You think we can’t handle a few scars?”
She doesn’t answer me, but I can tell she’s not convinced. One of the things about profilers is that we’re good at reading people. Freya’s on the edge of panic.
Every book I’ve ever read on psychology tells me to be gentle, to tread carefully and I have to force myself to forget the science and listen to my gut. River came on too strong, but he was right about one thing, Freya doesn’t need softness right now. She doesn’t need to be treated like she’s fragile. She needs us to prove that seeing her scars isn’t going to change how we see her.
I reach out for her good ankle and tug it towards me. The move unbalances her but she catches herself with two hands on the bed behind her.
“Jude,” she says.
I run my hand up her leg, all the way to the hem of her shorts, resisting the temptation to push further.
“What are you doing?”
I ignore her and move so I’m kneeling on the bed then I place my other hand on Freya’s chest, gently but firmly easing her back until she’s lying down and I’m looming over her.
Her green eyes burn like a forest fire. “It’s more than a few, Jude.”
I drop my hand to the bottom of her shirt but when I start to pull it up Freya grabs my wrist with two hands.
I stop. “You think we need pretty?” I ask. “You think after all we’ve seen, all we’ve done that we want soft, perfect, fragile?” I ease her shirt up a little bit. “We want tough. Strong. A fighter.”
Freya’s lips part, her breath warm against my jaw.
“Don’t get me wrong, Angel, you’re gorgeous. Stunning. But any scars you’ve got aren’t going to take away from that. They’ll only add to it. Because in our world, staying alive, is sexy as hell.”
She waits a moment but then she lets go of my wrist and gives me a slight nod.
I signal for Oz to get the first aid kit open because even after everything I’ve just said I know this isn’t going to be easy for her, and I want it over as quick as possible.
He sits down on the other side of the bed and gets everything ready. Once he’s done, I lift up Freya’s shirt.For once my mind isn’t wandering anywhere. I am fully focused on the woman laid out before me.
Most of her torso is covered in bandages, so we don’t get the full impact at first. A small part of me is hoping it won’t be that bad. I’ve seen countless dead bodies, many of which have been mutilated beyond belief. I can deal with a few scars. But when Oz moves Freya into a sitting position to unwrap the gauze, an uneasiness embeds itself between my ribs.
She winces as Oz peels back the final layer. It must hurt like a bitch, but she doesn’t make a sound. She’s trying to be strong but the second the air touches her skin she turns her head to the side and closes her eyes.
To be honest, I’m glad she does because there’s no way I can keep the horror that surges through me off my face.
Beside me, Oz goes still, and we both have to take a few breaths. It’s bad. Maybe not worse than what I’ve seen on a corpse but worse than anything I’ve ever even imagined on someone still alive.
The road rash is red and angry, and still oozing in places but it’s nothing compared to the rest of her chest.
He cut her like he made her cut his victims. Eight crosses, four on either side of her torso. Those are the worst scars, the skin raised and pink. You’d have to cut deep to get scars like that.
Or repeatedly cut in the same place.
It would be bad enough if that was all, but the rest of her is littered with thin pink and white lines. The biggest one sweeps in a vicious curve down from between her breasts to the edge of her hip. There’s more scarred skin than not and the way some of thelines curve round her side has me thinking her back didn’t get away unscathed.
