Chapter 45
CHRISTOPHER
I wish I could say I didn’t remember what happened.
Humiliation and a heavy dose of self-hatred rains down from Calista’s bedroom ceiling and covers me in the reek of pity. Pity that stems from the woman who won’t look at me, the reflection in the mirror who’s got her eyes glued to my throat.
“This is the worst part.”
She pinches the skin and slides the needle through. I flinch against the sting, wishing I wasn’t so fucking weak in front of this woman.
“You said that about the alcohol swab too.”
A ghost of a smile hits her lips, “Just making sure you’re ready for it.”
The air feels thick and heavy between us, the playful innuendo lost to the weight of this evening. I’m barely staying afloat,my mind is still locked in that stupid fucking closet and all the memories that came with it.
Memories I thought I had covered up a long time ago.
The notion feels as superficial as the stitches Calista sews into my neck. Her touch is surprisingly tender as she works her way around the signs that point to a broken boy.
“I’m sorry.”
Forcing my eyes back to the ceiling, I pretend I can’t hear the quiver in my voice.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
Squinting at nothing, I stare and pray the tears have dried up for the night, “I should have said something. The ventilation system-
“Isn’t our only access point. We can find another way.”
It’s a blatant lie but I don’t call her on it. We both know how much is at stake and what has to happen for this plan to work.
We’re down to less than thirty-six hours before the heist, and I’m getting patched together like a ragdoll, pretending I’m not the reason everything is falling apart.
Pretending like I’m not one breath away from tearing myself apart.
Again.
“Shh.” Calista rubs my shoulder gently, soothing the growl from my throat, “Let’s not worry about that right now.”
I close my eyes and lean into her touch. Wishing we had more time to be just us, a couple of scarred people searching for the love we can’t find in ourselves.
Hunting for the beauty nobody else sees in our scars.
“My stepfather had these hunting dogs. Big, vicious things that were a lot like your Ronan.”
Ears flick in my direction, the dog in question watching us from the other side of the bed.
“Yeah, I’m talking about you.”
He huffs, a hoity sound that puts a smile on Calista’s face. I reach out and touch her smile, tracing the curve of her lips and the crinkle of her eyes like they’re the courage I’ve been searching for.
“Not as friendly as Ronan, of course, but there was a lot of them. Roger – my mother’s husband at the time – was a hunting fanatic and spent months prepping these hounds for the upcoming season.”
The needle glides through my skin, and for once, I welcome the pain.
“I was a cheeky shit back then. Still am, but I had a chip on my shoulder for being carted around from place to place. Exchanging one stepdaddy for the other.”
