Page 39 of Breaking His Exile

River’s voice came back. Younger. Lighter. Standing beside the fallen pine with a length of chain and that same reckless energy that had gotten him court-martialed once already. “You sure about this, Cole?”

He’d been sure. The rig was sound. The anchor would hold. He’d checked it twice. Told River yes, and then the chain snapped with enough force to take off a limb. River was lucky to still have his leg.

Every person who’d ever depended on Evander Cole had paid. Trust led to blood. His judgment led to suffering.

Now Rainey trusted him.

The rain came harder. He stood at the tree line with water running down his neck and his hands shaking, and Tilly pressed warm against his leg. The dog knew. She always knew. Her dark eyes stared up at him, and it helped steady him.

But not enough.

Nothing helped enough anymore, and that was the problem.

He turned toward the shed.

The padlock was cold under his fingers. He worked the key into it by feel, the rain hitting his shoulders, and the lock gave with a click that sounded too loud in the wet dark. The shed door groaned on its hinges. Inside, the air smelled of oil, rust, and wet canvas. Tools hung on the walls. A workbench ran along the far side, cluttered with parts he’d been meaning to fix or reuse.

Tilly tried to slip in ahead of him. He blocked her with his knee and eased her back out into the rain. She didn’t fight it. She sat down in the mud, ears forward, and watched him through the gap until he shut the door on her.

He stood in the dark a minute, letting his eyes adjust.

Then he lit the lantern.

The flame caught. Yellow light filled the small space, throwing his shadow against the wall. He set the lantern on the bench and rolled up his left sleeve. The old burns stared back at him. Dozens of them, small and round and silvered, clustered along the inside of his forearm like a constellation he’d drawn with his own hand. Some older than others. Some still pink.

He looked at them a long time. The rain drummed the roof. The lantern hissed.

He’d told himself, every time, that the last one was the last one.

He found the pack of cigarettes he stashed in an old coffee can and pulled one out. Rolled it between his fingers. The paper was dry inside the can.

Good.

He lit it off the lantern flame, drew the smoke into his lungs and held it. The familiar burn. The clarity it brought.

He needed more.

He pinched the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, brought it down to the pale skin between two old scars, and pressed. The pain was immediate and bright. It narrowed his world to a single point of heat and the control of his own hand. He counted. One. Two. Three. Released. The cigarette hissed against wet skin. A new mark, red and angry, joining the others.

Better.

He did it again. Lower on the forearm this time. Counted. Held. Released. His thoughts quieted. Rainey’s mouth, her song, the future he’d let himself imagine—all of it compressed into something manageable. Something he could deal with.

Pain was honest. Pain reminded him what happened when he forgot. When he let himself want.

He pressed the cigarette again. Held. Counted.

For several minutes, it worked.

Then the door opened. Tilly stood in the doorway, rain gleaming on her dark coat, ears forward—and behind her, backlit by the cabin’s yellow glow, a smaller silhouette.

Fuck. She’d gone and found Rainey.

eleven

“Evander?”

He came around fast, the cigarette dropping from his fingers, and for a second neither of them moved.