A shudder runs down my spine when I think of the package I almost opened one day. I found out later that my sister's hand had been in that box. They were sending her back to my father piece by piece until he paid a ransom for her release.
My father never did pay the money.
He refused to back down to anyone…even for his own children. He told me to never show weakness even in the face of severe adversity.
No. I refuse to live in a world like that.
And even if I don't stay here with Lucien for very much longer because he doesn't want me anymore, I want to go somewhere else. I want tobesomeone else.
* * * * * * *
I'M FEELING A lot better by the time night rolls around. And I'm sitting up in bed reading when Lucien finally comes walking in. He doesn't look at me. Instead, he sits down on the edge of the bed and puts his face in his hands.
"Lucien?" I whisper, but he doesn't respond. He doesn't move other than his chest heaving in panting breaths as if he ran here from somewhere.
Closing my book and placing it on the nightstand, I timidly crawl over to him. His elbows are on his knees, his face is buried in his hands, and his fingers are locked in a death grip in his hair. That's when I see the cuts, bruises and blood covering his knuckles.
"What happened?" I ask him, gently placing my hand on his shoulder. He flinches from the contact, so I pull my hand back quickly, not wanting to hurt him anymore than he's already obviously hurting. "What happened to your hands?" I whisper, concerned.
"I can't…I can't…" he repeats over and over again, whimpering like a lost, little boy, and it makes my heart ache for him.
I can smell the alcohol permeating from his lips, and I realize he's drunk on top of whatever else is going on in that eccentric brain of his. "What's wrong, Lucien? Please. Let me help you."
He's always so in control and careful with every movement and action that he performs. I've never seen him so vulnerable before.
And it's scaring the hell out of me.
He seems withdrawn into himself, almost like blocking out the world might be some type of coping mechanism for him. Maybe he doesn't even know I'm here right now, and I don't know how to break him of this wicked spell he has himself under.
Standing, I go to the bathroom and retrieve a first aid kit that I know is under the sink. I set the kit on the bed and drop to my knees on the floor beside Lucien. He's still muttering nonsensical words and rocking gently back and forth with his hands fisted in his hair.
He's having some kind of a mental breakdown, and I can't think of anything else in this moment except for the fact that I want to help him just as he helped me after I was attacked. He took such good care of me and was so gentle. And now I want to return the favor.
Gently, I touch his wrist, and he recoils as if I just burnt him. "Lucien," I say softly. "Please. Let me clean your knuckles." I run my fingers soothingly up and down his muscular forearm. His muscles are corded with tension, but they slowly begin to relax as I caress him.
I gently pry his left hand away from his hair and pull it down to rest on his knee. He keeps the right one locked with a fistful of hair and his eyes clenched shut. As gently as I can, I clean away the blood and swab at the deep cuts with an antiseptic. He releases shuddering breaths as I tend to him, and I can't help but think back to what he said in the shower. He mentioned something about never having anyone take care of him.
I'm not even sure what he meant by that since I know almost nothing about Lucien's childhood…or much about his adulthood, to be honest. I know he had a terrible past based on what little Jax has alluded to and the fact that his back is covered with scars, but I don't know who hurt him or how long ago it happened…or how long it went on for.
Did he have a family? A mother who read him bedtime stories? A father he played baseball in the backyard with?
Or is his past on the other end of the spectrum with no mother, no father…no one who loved him?
As I wrap his hand with gauze, I ask, "When you told me earlier that you never had anyone take care of you…what did you mean by that?"
He shakes his head; still gripping his hair with so much force I'm afraid he'll tear it out at the root. Gently, I pry his right hand away and lower it to his knee. When he eventually opens his eyes and meets my stare, I can almost feel the pain radiating from them.
"My mother…" he starts, but then clamps his mouth shut before shaking his head and closing his eyes. He cringes as if he's in physical pain from the mention of his mom.
I cup his cheek with my hand and lovingly stroke his skin and stubble with my thumb. I expect him to balk or pull away from my touch, but he doesn't. Maybe the alcohol is dulling his aversion to my touch. I'm not sure, but I like feeling his smooth, warm skin under my fingertips.
"Please, Luc. Tell me about your mother. I want to know. I want to know everything about you," I confess.
His eyes slowly open at my words, and his brows knit together in confusion. His dark gaze searches my face as if trying to figure out if I'm lying. When I ask him again, he finally lets out an exasperated sigh.
He stares at me for a long time without speaking, and I'm beginning to think he won't say anything at all. I break our connection and finish wrapping his hand. Then I turn my attention to his right hand, which seems to be worse off than the left. As I'm gently wiping away the blood so that I can assess the damage, Lucien finally speaks.
"My childhood was terrible. My mother…my mother was a horrible, despicable human being. She would lure me to her with kindness and then beat me until I could barely walk."
