He lifts one shoulder and lets it drop. He’s not wearing the leather gloves today, and I finally put together all the letters on his knuckles as he holds the steering wheel. F-L-O-R-E-N-C-I-A, and then a tiny frangipani flower on his pinky finger.
“That…That name!” I gasp. My chest suddenly hurts.
“What name?”
“On your knuckles! That was your mamma’s name.”
“So you remember.” His voice lifts slightly, almost turning it into a question, but not quite.
“Of course I remember! I loved Florencia,” I say, shocked and frankly rather hurt that he could think I’d forgotten her. I don’t remember her as clearly as I remember Curse from that time, but she’s still vivid in my mind. Her hair, thick and black like Curse and Elio’s. The rich quality of her voice when she spoke, laughed, and sang. She wasn’t a classically beautiful woman with her thick dark brows and bold nose, but she was so warm, so quick to smile, that she became radiant to anyone who spent more than a few seconds in her presence.
Curse gives a nod, maybe a little tighter, a little stiffer, than the gesture usually is for him.
“I can’t believe you’d think I didn’t remember her,” I say, crossing my arms.
“Well, you sounded confused when you brought up the name on my knuckles,” Curse says after a beat.
“If I’m confused, it’s because I’m surprised to see her name tattooed on you,” I say bluntly. “You don’t strike me as the sentimental type. At least, not anymore.”
He gives another one-shouldered shrug. It’s nonchalant. Nearly flippant.
“It’s just a record of sorts. The ink,” he says.
“A record of what?”
“Of the human I used to be.”
I can’t think of anything to say to that. And what words could possibly even matter right now? There’s not a phrase in the world that can change the fact that the man beside me doesn’t believe he’s human anymore. That he requires permanent signs inked into his skin just to remind him that he once was.
Curse doesn’t appear to require a reply. He hasn’t looked at me once since this conversation started. Following his example, I stare out my window, watching buildings and snowy, sunlit streets roll by. We must already be in Montreal.
I don’t know what kind of house Curse lives in, but when we pull into the driveway of a stunning red brick home on a beautiful, tree-lined street, I know it isn’t this.
“What?” he asks, sensing my surprise.
“I just…This seems so…domestic,” I say, still staring at the pretty house. It’s like a picture from a storybook. “I assumed you had a small empty apartment you were planning to stick me in.”
“No apartments,” he says. “I don’t like sharing walls with other people.”
“You don’t like sharing walls with other people,” I say sarcastically, “but you’re fine to literally handcuff me to you while you sleep?”
“You’re different.”
Before I can try to figure out what he means by that, his phone rings. He pulls it from his pocket, glances at the screen, then exits the SUV to answer it, closing the door firmly behind him.
Chapter 11
Curse
“Where are you?” Elio asks the moment I answer the phone.
“Montreal,” I tell him.
I hear him sigh between his teeth.
“And where have you been the past couple of days?”
“Just outside of Montreal,” I say. It’s not really a lie, I guess. But Elio’s too smart for my shit.
