Page 59 of Ignited

“But you were still a tiger. And that fucker Maximilian still had a hold on you, even after I let you out. Did you know I went back? Me, a sixteen-year-old punk, thinking I could take on a sorcerer. I tried to kill him. Instead, he almost killed me.”

“No,” Karisma whispered, shocked. “I didn’t know.”

Boomer shut the cupboard, leaning against it. “He told me I hadn’t saved you, that you’d never get the collar off, that it would keep you a tiger, or you’d die. And then he laughed at me.”

He shook his head. “I lost my shit. Went wolf on him. Got him good in the face before he threw me across the tent into the central pole. Almost broke my spine—and then he tried to suck me into his fucking crystal. I was lucky to get away. All I did was maybe scar him up.”

“You did that for me?”

He shrugged. “I thought you were hot.”

He was so full of shit. Karisma gave a laugh that was almost a sob. “I didn’t know. My tiger stayed away from you because… because what else could I do? It’s not like you could take me home and keep me, like a stray cat.”

“I would have tried,” he told her.

“Yeah, I know you would have. And you would have tried to take the collar off, and it would have killed you. That’s how it was designed. One of the shifters who escaped with me died trying to get the collar off the panther.”

He raised his eyes to hers. “They did? Shit. I had no idea.”

“How could you? But I couldn’t stand the idea of that happening to you, so I kept my tiger away. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I knew you were looking, but I didn’t dare come near. I’m sorry.”

She’d hurt him so much that he’d spent ten years trying to make it right. “You spent all this time looking for me. You never gave up.”

“Because I’m an idiot.”

“Because you care.” He didn’t answer her. “Because you’re a good person.”

“No, I’m not.” His tone was so definite. Like he was sure.

She opened the cabinet door again and pointed to the photos. Layers and layers of them. “These say different, my stubborn wolfy friend. These photos say you’re a hero. You do things for other people. I only do things for me.”

He shook his head. “You were just trying to survive.”

He turned to the board then, running his fingers gently over the photos. “I tell people I’m a hero, when I’m talking bullshit. But I don’t feel like one. I feel like—like maybe I only do it for me, too. To block out the dark shit. Make me think I’m a better person than I really am.”

He wasn’t just talking about her, she realized. Standing this close, she could feel that dark place in him—that cold and lonely place where he kept the memories he never talked about. Whatever it was that made him feel less than.

She wanted to ask him about it, for him to confide in her so maybe those memories wouldn’t feel so dark. But she didn’t know how to ask, and she didn’t think he knew how to tell her.

Instead she said, “I did go back later, and look for you.”

He turned to face her. “You did? When?”

“After—after I got human again. I knew where your house was—I’d tracked you there one time, in the beginning. But it was a long time later, and… you were gone.”

Boomer’s face grew shuttered, all expression leaving it. “My dad died.”

“I know. I went to see your neighbor. Mr. Jackson.”

“Shit. That guy hated me. Said my explosives scared his dogs, and I was going to grow up to be a terrorist.”

She smiled. “I think he kind of liked you, actually, from the way he talked. He strongly implied your dad was a shit, though.”

“My dad was a violent, abusive drunk.”

“Yeah. He didn’t exactly put it that way, but he didn’t seem sorry he was gone.”

“Nobody was.”