He freezes, his whole body tenses. “When you left me, he turned his attention to me. He beat me until I could barely walk, and then he raped me.”
I don’t know why I say it so callously. Is it because I want to hurt him? Make him feel the ultimate guilt? And I think this is the way to do it?
“He found every hiding spot, and Maria was powerless to stop him. Even if she took many a beating for me. Just like you used to for her. You were the only person to ever successfully stand up to him.”
His back is to me; the anger rolls off him in ferocious waves. People are walking past. I’m aware that we are in public, but it isn’t exactly a crowded area. People are too busy trying to get to their next destination.
That’s the good thing about Londoners. They keep their heads down, keep walking.
“Fucking hell. I’d kill him if I could,” he says so quietly I barely hear him.
“No need.” I say it so devoid of emotion that he turns around and looks at me.
“Lucy,” he groans. His eyes clench shut, and he winces like it physically hurts.
“It’s in the past.” I shrug. I fucking shrug.
My voice isn’t my own as I lie to him. It’s not in the past. Not even close.
“Everything, everywhere I saw him.” See him. I want to say. Even more so since he walked back into my life. “I hated myself for letting him.”
He takes a step forward, but I hold my hand out.
“Letting him…Are you for real right now? You were a kid,” Owen argues.
“I know. Look, I don’t need your comfort. It happened, and I’ve dealt with it.”
If a facial expression could scream bullshit, it would be the look on his face right now. Head cocking, eyebrow raised.
“Just forget I said anything,” I mumble, suddenly self-conscious, even though wasn’t this whole situation because I wanted to hurt him? Jesus, am I fucked up or what?
I’ve done the shittiest possible thing. I blurted it out.
He frowns and steps forward. “This isn’t something I can exactly forget, Lucy.”
He holds my eyes but stays silent as a film of emotion plays out on his beautiful features while he processes. He shakes his head, his face full of sadness, and steps past me.
And God, I’d be lying if that didn’t hurt. Because why didn’t he apologise for breaking his promise?
We step out of the lift on the 11th floor, the beige carpets and walls with its pictures making the whole place more like a hotel than a block of apartments.
Owen hasn’t said a word. He hasn’t been able to look me in the eye since I dropped the bomb, and I’m trying desperately not to feel guilty about it.
But I can’t help it.
I do feel guilty.
My insides are being beaten black and blue with the pain and guilt of how I handled that. There’s a pain in my heart like it’s been stabbed with a rusty old knife. I told him to make him feel like shit. He now feels like shit, and so do I.
I’m a fucking idiot.
A callous, cold-hearted bitch.
Maybe there was something in what he said. Maybe I do know nothing about him. He has shown nothing but someone who is trying to do better, trying to create something for people like us, and has got caught up in the web that the Covenant has weaved throughout London. A web that I myself am in.
There are four flats on each floor, and as we approach Owen’s door, I put my hand across his chest to stop him.
“The latch.” I nod.
