Does It Hurt?: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

“Enzo Vitale?” one of the coast guards questions from the other end of the boat, checking over Enzo’s wounds. “There was a massive search party for you, but they didn’t look out this way. You’re far out from the Australian coast.”

I can’t hear what Enzo murmurs back, but as usual, he looks positively annoyed.

I turn my attention back to the coast guard treating my wounds just as he finishes putting the splint on my wrist.

“Thanks, Jason,” I say.

Enzo found the keys to the cuffs on Sylvester’s dead body, but the bright red rings of irritation remain, accompanied by the laceration on my hand.

“We’ll get you to a hospital to have it properly treated,” he responds.

He already noted the tattoo on my leg, but Enzo and I decided trying to hide it would only seem suspicious. If they don’t see it now, they’ll most likely see it in the hospital.

We decided to say it was an act of rebellion against Sylvester, and considering it’s definitely not professional—it’s believable. I’ve never been gladder that my first tattoo was by a man at a bus stop.

My anxiety took over, so I’ve kept quiet. Sensing my unease, Jason talked to me the entire time. Told me all about his sick dog back home and how he’s recovering from a surgery that removed the cancer from his ear.

“You both will have to go to the station immediately after treatment.”

“Okay,” I say, injecting as much confidence in my tone as I can muster. That urge to run still lingers, but I push it away. I refuse to cower and hide any longer.

And this will be the last time Enzo and I will ever have to tell a lie in the name of survival.

“Do you have a last name, sweetheart?” the policewoman asks, her brow pinched with concern.

Her accent is strong, but her voice is soothing. She’s an older woman with white hair, gentle brown eyes, and soft hands. I don’t know why I remember that… It was the only thing I could focus on when she grabbed ahold of my own and said I was safe now.

Safe.

It’s something I’ve never really felt before. Not until Enzo—when it was me and him against Sylvester, and then again when Officer Bancroft held my palms between hers.

It only makes me feel worse that I’m lying to her.

My mouth opens, then closes. I don’t actually know the answer to that question.

We’re at Port Valen’s police station. We spent all of yesterday in the hospital, where my wrist was put in a cast and I was treated for smoke inhalation. Enzo was also treated for the smoke, along with his concussion. He has bruising across his face from when he was hit with the gun, and his back and right shoulder, assumingly from when Sylvester threw him down into the hole.

They allowed us both to stay the night there before sending us off to the station for questioning this morning.

“I’m not sure,” I say weakly, blood rising to my cheeks.

Officer Bancroft might assume it’s embarrassment, but truly, it’s because I’m terrified that I’m fucking this up. None of this sits right in my stomach or my head. Sylvester’s daughters deserve to have the recognition for what they endured, and here I am, selfishly erasing one of them for my own benefit.

It makes me sick.

“Okay,” she says gently. “Can you tell me a little about what happened when Enzo first arrived?”

I clear my throat, glancing around as if I’m going to find the answer written on the walls. “My… my dad saw him lying out on the beach u-unconscious. He, uhm, he told us to hide, then took the batteries out of the handheld radio and waited for E-Enzo to come in.”

The only good thing about being so damn nervous is that growing up sequestered on an island would result in social awkwardness, and I’m bringing it full force. It’s only embarrassing because I didn’t actually grow up on a tiny island, but at least she doesn’t know that.

“Do you know why he took the batteries out?”

I shift uncomfortably, idly scratching my arm just to give my hands something to do.

“When can I see Enzo?” I ask instead. I’m not a trusting person, but the only one Trinity feels safe with is Enzo. She would also be hesitant to talk about her father. He’s all she knows.

“You can see him soon, honey. I just need you to answer some questions for me, okay?”

I glance behind my shoulder at the door, mumbling, “Okay,” while also wondering if they’d let me leave right now and go find him.

“Can you—”

“He’s not in trouble, is he?” I cut in.

“They’re just asking him some questions,” she assures gently.

It doesn’t slip my attention that she didn’t answer my question.

“Can you tell me why your father took the batteries out?” she repeats, keeping her tone soft and patient.

She must donate to charities and volunteer at the soup kitchen on weekends—the woman is a saint. I would’ve lost my patience already.

“D-Dad was worried about him finding me and my sister and didn’t want him to have access to the radios in case he did.”

“Do you know why he didn’t want Enzo to have access?”

I shrug, scratching my arm again. “He likes to have friends.”

The officer nods and writes something down in her notepad.

“How many friends has your father had?”

I chew my lip, not wanting to answer that. Trinity might not want to rat out her father, but frankly, I have no idea how many bodies were buried in the cellar.

“You know he can’t hurt you anymore, right?” Bancroft asks, tipping her chin down to catch my stare.

“Yeah…” I trail off, shifting in my seat. “He, uh, he didn’t let me see them all. I don’t… I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“Okay, okay,” she placates, sensing my panic. My heart is pounding, and sweat is forming along my hairline, and beads are slowly trailing down my back.

“So, your dad kept you both hidden the entire time Enzo was there, or just Kacey?”

“At first, it was both of us.”

When I don’t say anything else, she prompts, “And then?”

“Then… then one night, Dad let Kacey and I go into the ocean to get some fresh air and clean up a little. E-Enzo saw me through the window, so the next day, he started questioning who I was. Dad had to let me out the next day and told him he didn’t feel comfortable having his daughter around a strange man.”

“And Kacey? Did he see Kacey?”

I shake my head, scratching my arm harder. Officer Bancroft reaches across the table and grabs my hand, stopping me. Her hands are so soft.

“You’re going to hurt yourself, sweetheart.”

I remove myself from her grasp, and she lets me go easily.

“Keep going. You’re safe now,” she reiterates.

Debatable.

Clearing my throat, I forge on, “Kacey was too close to the door and out of sight, I guess. Enzo never mentioned seeing another girl, and there was no way Dad would let Enzo see what he had done to her. He got lucky, I guess…” I trail off.

“Trinity,” the officer starts, then pauses, seeming to struggle with her words. “Why was it that Sylvester mutilated Kacey the way he did and not you?”

I look down, discomfort rattling in my bones. “He liked me more,” I choke, twisting my face at the implication. “He uh, preferred to… he liked me differently. So, he… punished us differently.”

Her face slackens, disgust and fury mingling in her eyes. But she quickly looks down, concealing her reaction toward something horrific and ugly, and fuck, not my story.

Officer Bancroft scribbles notes down in her notepad, and it feels like tiny little bugs are nipping at my nerves, growing more aggressive the longer she writes.

Did I say something different than Enzo? Did she find a hole in my story and is writing down how much of a liar I am?

However, she finishes and lifts her head, smiling at me with nothing less than kindness.

“You mentioned there were several bodies buried in the cellar. Do you know who these people were?” she asks. She’s back to questions about the people who were found, and my panic once more heightens.

I look down, feeling almost dizzy from how pivotal this single question is. Enzo and I had thought long and hard about doing this after answering that call over the radio—about finally killing Sawyer Bennett. I knew that if I ever wanted to go on living without looking over my shoulder, she had to die.

“Enzo w-wasn’t the first to shipwreck on those waters. There were several. And Dad… he didn’t let them go. We-we were hidden away from them, so I never got to see them, but… there was one that made herself known.”

Bancroft leans forward, listening intently.

Swallowing, I explain, “She wasn’t adjusting well, and he thought my presence might help. I guess it did in some way, but I wasn’t any less miserable—”

I drag my fingers over my lips, cutting myself off.

“It’s okay,” Bancroft assures. “You’re allowed to say that.”

I nod. “Her name was Sawyer. Sawyer Bennett. We were… were friends, I-I think. She told me a lot about her life. But she… she always cried and screamed to be let go. One night, it stopped, and I never saw her again.”

Tears fill my eyes, and my bottom lip trembles. While the reason I’m crying is fabricated, it truly feels like I’m killing myself and who I used to be. It’s an emotion I’m having trouble putting a name to.

Grief, I suppose.

Maybe relief, too.

I sniff, wringing my hands together to abate my shaking hands.

“Dad wouldn’t tell us what happened, but I was heartbroken about losing her, so I went looking through his things to see if I could find why,” I croak, my voice raspy with unshed tears. “I… found this.” 

I shift and reach into my back pocket, pulling out a letter, and handing it over to the officer with a trembling hand.

My heart is beating so hard, I can feel it in my ears. Bancroft’s brow furrows as she opens the letter and begins to read it.

Lying was never the worst of my sins, just the first of them.

The day I told my parents Kevin James Bennett was raping me, my mother slapped me in the face, and my father demanded I apologize for lying about something so sick.

They looked at me as if I was the abuser. How dare I ruin our perfect little family with these despicable lies? How dare I accuse my perfect brother of such a thing?

I wasn’t lying then. But I did after.

When I stood in front of my brother, head bowed, and tears streaming down my cheeks, and told him that I was sorry for my accusation. My parents stood on either side of him, arms crossed and frowns on their faces, ensuring that I said the words.

That was a lie.

After that, I got good at telling them.

Every time I said “I’m fine” when asked what was wrong. When the guidance counselor and teachers called my parents in, concerned for me, and I told them my home life was good. Yet, I was failing classes, retreating in on myself, and losing the little friends I had. I cut my hair, started wearing baggy clothes, and stopped smiling.

Gone was the bright and sunny Sawyer Bennett. In her place was a raging lightning storm.

After my parents died, Kevin only grew worse. He refused me independence. I had to beg him to get a job at the local library, and even then, I knew he was watching me.

He felt superior because he was going to be a cop. Going to be a protector.

But he gained more than power. He gained powerful friends.

Killing him wasn’t the worst of my sins, just the bloodiest.

Even now, as I sit here in this decrepit lighthouse with a man who doesn’t want to hurt me any less than Kevin did, I don’t regret that decision to take his life. Even if that decision ultimately led me here.

What I do regret is all the people that I’ve hurt on the way.

When I left my old house, stained with Kevin’s blood, I only wore socks on my feet. But what hurts is that I slipped them into other people’s shoes and carried my sins into lives that had no place being there.

That… that I do regret.

I’ve taken enough lives. But tonight will be the last.

And for the first time in my life, I feel at peace with that.

Sawyer Bennett

By the time she’s done, she’s shaking her head, sadness permeating the air.

“She killed herself,” she states.

I nod, a tear slipping through and trailing down my cheek. I did kill myself, but not in the way she thinks.

“I don’t know if her remains are in the cellar, but she was there. She existed.”

“How long ago was this?”

I roll my lips. “I-I’m not sure… Time is different there. But I think it was five birthdays ago.”

Bancroft nods. “I’ll put these into evidence.”

My throat dries, and I can’t help but stare at the piece of paper and wonder if I just made a huge mistake. They will investigate Sawyer Bennett and my admission of guilt. Eventually, it will lead to my wanted status, and the sighting in the airport from my distant relative. Most likely, it’ll be written off because Sawyer Bennett was never there—she died five years ago on Raven Isle.

I’m sure they’ll see the picture of me when I was fourteen years old, sitting awkwardly on the couch with a Christmas present in hand. It was broadcasted everywhere after I escaped.

Up until I killed Kev, I had my natural dark brown hair color styled into a boy cut with thick straightened bangs on my face. I was going through a gothic phase then, wearing heavy black makeup and studded chokers. I presented myself that way in the hopes that Kev would find me less appealing, but it never worked, no matter how hard I tried.

It was the only picture they could find of me. My parents weren’t big on documenting our happy little family, and once Kev’s abuse began, I did everything in my power to avoid being close to them—let alone take pictures with them.

 If I’m lucky, they won’t be able to see beneath the bad haircut and heavy makeup and discover the girl sitting before them.

For another hour, she continues with her questioning, offering patience and understanding as I trip over my words, grow flustered, and continue to ask to see Enzo.

She asks about how I was raised, if Sylvester offered us schooling—I said he did since she made note that I appeared educated for someone who was so sheltered—about what he did to Kacey and why, and how he would keep us hidden from people when they wrecked, or when he received shipments, and lastly, about the deaths of Sylvester and Kacey. I broke out into tears during that, and while my sadness may have benefited me, it was nothing but genuine. I didn’t know Kacey for more than an hour or two, but her story and her death are heartbreaking, and she didn’t deserve the hand she was dealt.

In the end, she assures me that I’m not under arrest, but they still will need to ask questions as the investigation unfolds. While walking me out of the interrogation room and to her desk, she speaks to me about options for a place for me to stay until I get an official identity in place.

She’s mid-sentence, in the middle of rifling through file folders by her desk, when she stops, her eyes locked onto my thigh.

My stomach twists and my eyes instantly cut to where she’s staring.

My tattoo.

I’m still wearing the jean shorts, leaving it entirely on display.

Heart thudding, I fondly finger the wonky black letters, a slight smile on my face. Hopefully, her seeing that I’m not trying to hide it will make her unsuspicious.

“I got in so much trouble for that, but I don’t regret it.”

Her brow furrows and she comes around to get a closer look.

“The hell is it?”

“I, uhm, I found a sewing needle and got some pen ink and gave myself a tattoo,” I explain awkwardly. “I’ve been angry with my dad for so long, it was one of the few ways I chose to rebel.”

I hate that I’m forced to paint over such a special memory with an ugly one, but at least I know the real one. I’ll always have Simon to hold on to.

Officer Bancroft chuckles. “I like it. But don’t do that again. Could’ve given yourself a serious infection.”

“Okay,” I say with a soft smile.

“So, there are a few shelters that will take you in, but—”

“I’d like to stay with Enzo,” I cut in.

She tightens her lips, and the look on her face has my nerves reigniting all over again. “Please, he protected me. He saved me. I-I don’t want him to get in troub—”

“Honey, they’re just questioning him right now. I understand that you might feel safe with Enzo and have formed a bond, but why don’t we find someplace that might be able to give you around-the-clock care? You’re going to experience culture shock and have difficulties acclimating, so it’s important that we make sure you’re okay.”

A shot of adrenaline releases into my bloodstream, and I’m beginning to panic again. It’s starting to feel like a constant state of mind.

I don’t want to go to a shelter. It feels like, yet again, I’m being forced to give up my freedom.

I shake my head, taking a step back. She sighs softly, noting the distress on my face.

Before either of us can say anything, a door opens from down the hall, and Enzo is stepping out, with a stormy expression on his face.

His eyes immediately find mine, and his shoulders relax an inch. The moment our gazes meet, he beelines for me, cupping my face between his palms the moment I’m within reach. He tips his chin down, searching my face before ensnaring my eyes.

“You okay?”

I nod. “I’m fine,” I rasp.

He picks apart my expression for a few more seconds before dropping his hands and focusing on Officer Bancroft.

“She’s staying with me.”

Exasperation crosses over her face, and honestly, I know she sees mine and Enzo’s connection as nothing more than a trauma bond. In some ways, it might be. But she doesn’t know that we have so much more than that, and it’s not something we’ll ever be able to explain.

“We have a shelter that—”

“No,” Enzo cuts in, voice stern and final. “I am more than capable of taking care of her.”

I bite my lip, trying not to feel good about that but finding it impossible not to.

The officer who interrogated Enzo—Officer Jones—stands beside Bancroft, studying the two of us with a keen eye. He’s younger and less impressionable. It makes me nervous, but if he’s releasing Enzo, he must not have found anything incriminating.

Yet.

Bancroft sighs again, but she’s relenting. She can’t force me to stay anywhere—not unless I’m going to jail. Enzo’s sharp jaw is set stubbornly, and his eyes are gleaming, daring the officers to argue. There’s no denying his fierce protectiveness and that he clearly has no intentions of letting me go.

“You’re free to go,” Jones says. “But neither of you are allowed to leave the country. I suspect we’ll be seeing each other again, Mr. Vitale.”

Enzo slides his gaze to Jones, not appearing the least bit concerned. I, on the other hand, am shitting myself.

 ”And we’re under the agreement that her identity will stay hidden from the media?”

“Of course,” Jones agrees. “We will protect her.”

I hear everything he’s not saying.

That doesn’t mean we will protect you.