Page 25 of Where Sinners Repent

I try to shove his arm away, my heart crack in my chest, but his muscles are a band of steel around me.

“Stay.”

He stalks out of the car, boots crunching over broken glass as he pulls a gun from somewhere I didn’t see before and steps through the non-existent window.

Ignoring him completely, I throw open the door, chasing after him with Kitty in my hand.

The front door that I painted myself hangs crooked on one hinge, splintered and destroyed. The little bell above it lies in pieces on the ground.

“No...” I whisper quietly, my hand coming up to cover my mouth. To stop the sob from falling out.

I step inside. And my entire world caves in.

The artworks that hung on the walls in frames have been ripped down and ruined. Black ink and broken glass stain the floors. Every piece of furniture has been overturned, lying shattered.

Even the smell is wrong. Usually it smells like disinfectant, tattoo ointment and sage. Now, it smells like dust and spray paint.

Kai appears beside me, not making a sound. His eyes sweep the room, taking in the destruction.

“No, no, no...” is the only word I can find.

Crunching over the remnants of the one place that was mine.

I worked so hard for this. So hard for the clientele and the equipment. I remember crying tears of joy when I finally finished setting this place up, screaming a Bruce Springsteen song while dancing around the studio like a mad woman. Feeling free for the first time in my existence.

It was all just a façade.

Now... it’s nothing but destruction. My fingers slide over the ruined surfaces.

Finally, I let myself cry. My body feels like it’s being cleaved in half, and the first sob that slips out is ugly and raw.

Kai stalks through the place, stopping at the back wall. When I see what he is staring at, I freeze.

FOUND YOU, LITTLE TRAITOR.

Red spray paint taints the black wall, crimson streaks running down the bricks like fresh blood.

My stomach drops so violently I think I’m going to throw up. I crouch, arms gripping my stomach as I wheeze, swallowing down the nausea that swirls through me.

Months of skipping meals. Months of working in questionable bars and living in rooms as big as closets, so that I could make this place what it was. Drawing on napkins and my own skin in any spare time I could find.

“Fuck,” I whimper, reaching down to pick at a sharp piece of glass.

Lifting it in front of my face. A feral wail rips from my chest, and my hand curls into a fist around the shard. I barely feel it pierce my skin. Barely notice the blood trickling from my grip.

All I see is ruin. Havoc that feels familiar.

Boots crunching over the wreckage step towards me, stopping where I’m crouched on the ground. Blood drips from my shaking hand. Drip, drip, drip. Pooling into a crimson puddle at my feet. Almost beautiful if my heart hadn’t just been ripped out.

When he reaches down and lifts me as easily as if I were a tiny kitten, I don’t fight it. A tiredness weighs on my shoulders.

One hand circles my wrist. The other pries open my fingers, still curled over the glass, revealing the gash in the middle of my palm.

His long fingers pluck the stained glass from my palm. On the precipice of falling the fuck apart, each breath I take shakes on its way out.

“This place was mine,” I whisper, finally looking up at him. “I’m fucking stupid for thinking that they wouldn’t find it.”

He gazes down at me through his lashes, still holding my hand between us.