Felicia regretted her words the moment they left her lips. She knew nothing of Maurice’s past, the harm inflicted by his father, stepmother, or siblings. As an outsider, she had no right to judge. Her outburst stemmed from anger over Carmen's death, a death indirectly tied to Maurice. She'd let her emotions control her, and the words had tumbled out uncontrollably. But words, like spilled milk, couldn't be retrieved.
Maurice's expression hardened instantly. His brown eyes gleamed with an unnatural light, the red mole near his eye stark against his skin. His handsome face was impassive, radiating hostility. His men mirrored his fury, even the four assigned to protect Felicia appearing ready for violence.
The air thickened, oppressive in its stillness. Felicia remained motionless, but inwardly sighed. For a fleeting moment, she'd seen something in Maurice's eyes—an ache that reflected her own. In that brief glimpse of shared pain, a connection was made.
She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, Maurice erupted in loud, unrestrained laughter, jarring and seemingly intended to drown out his bitterness. Yet, to Felicia, it sounded hollow, a mockery of both himself and her.
A headache formed. Felicia was not confrontational; she knew the wounding power of words. Sometimes, careless sentences cut deeper than any blade. She wanted to rectify the situation but didn't know how.
While she pondered, Maurice seemed to revert to his usual self. The mask was back, smooth and unwavering, erasing the vulnerability she'd witnessed. His gaze fell upon the Fullers, pinned to the ground. A teasing, unreadable half-smile touched his lips. "You want me to release them? Fine. But you must agree to one condition."
"What condition?"
Felicia's instincts warned her it wouldn't be simple. She braced herself, expecting something impossible or cruel.
Before Maurice could answer, the Fullers began shouting, their voices abruptly cut short as someone gagged them. "...Licia! ...listen to him! Leave us and run! Hurry up and get–mmph!"
Felicia massaged her temples in frustration. "Just name it. What's your condition?"
To her surprise, Maurice simply said, "Clean my wounds."
Was that all?
Felicia froze, momentarily unsure she'd heard correctly. This was Maurice Glovers, a man known for ruthlessness, unpredictability, and terrifying madness. When had he become so reasonable?
Regardless, she wouldn't question her luck. Quickly composing herself, fearing a change of heart, she stepped forward, retrieved a first-aid kit, and began cleaning his wounds. Myra had inflicted considerable damage. A woman's nails could be as sharp as knives in desperation, and the deep, bloody scratches, caked with dirt, were proof. Treating them required close proximity—very close.