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4
Benton
I grabbed the bottle and refilled my glass, hearing the tap of the decanter against the crystal. The brown liquid swirled around before it went still, like a black pool of death. The decanter returned to the table, nearly empty because I used scotch as a pain medication for my soul.
Opioids for the heart.
“Should you contact him?” He left his chair and grabbed the decanter from the coffee table. He carried it into the kitchen and emptied it down the sink before leaving it empty on the counter.
I stayed on the couch and stared at the fire. “You think that’ll stop me?” The only thing that mattered to me had been taken, and now I had nothing left—except scotch.
“No.” Bleu came back into the living room. “But I can.”
I released a painful chuckle because it was so false that no amount of truth was needed to deny it. There was no reason to keep my mind sharp like a tack, my body ready for a demolition, because I’d explored every thread of hope to endless dead ends. What was the purpose of being ready for a battle that I couldn’t find?
Bleu sat down again. “Should we go back to the Chasseurs?”
“No.”
“It’s been a few days.”
“I’d be suspicious if it took less than a few days. This isn’t a restaurant where you call to see if your order is ready for pickup. If Bartholomew has something to say, he’ll say it.” I tipped the glass and took another drink, my eyes irritated because they were dry from constantly being open and staring, looking at the fire and feeling the heat burn the moisture away.
Bleu turned quiet, shifting his gaze to the fire, his hands clasped. “What did they want in return?”
I stared down into my glass and gave it a gentle shake, seeing the colors change as it swirled, moving from a deep black to slightly brown. “Money.” I lifted my glass once more, letting the coolness touch my bottom lip before the liquid came. My eyes returned to the fire, the only company I really had since Claire had disappeared.
Bleu turned back to me, his eyes slightly narrowed, slightly suspicious. But he didn’t dare challenge me.
I wasn’t in the mood for it.
His gaze lasted a while before it shifted forward, looking toward the kitchen and the dining room. When his shoulders tightened and he cleared his throat, I knew we weren’t alone. He rose to his feet and silently excused himself. His footsteps moved across the hardwood floor, across the house, and then out the front door.
His exit was audible, but Bartholomew’s entrance was silent.
The glass returned to the table, and I rose to my feet to look at the man to whom I’d once pledged my eternity. Through the dark streets, through the knife fights, through the endless battles, we stood shoulder to shoulder. Trust took a lifetime to earn, but a second to lose.
His dark eyes were fixed on my face, dressed in black with a black leather jacket on top. His military-style boots shone in the light coming from the hearth—and his dark eyes did the same. His stare was steady and unreadable, because he kept every thought encased in his cold exterior. The only way for someone to know what he was thinking was if he chose to tell you—and that happened rarely.
I pulled the air into my lungs and felt my chest expand, but I felt winded at the same time, like I never really had a full breath. The grief had destroyed my body. It wasn’t visible on the surface to anyone who looked at me, but my heart was about to give out from the chronic pain, my lungs could never fully expand to give me what I needed, and my brain was fried from the nightmares.
I didn’t ask how he’d found me. I didn’t ask how he got into my impenetrable apartment without making a sound. None of that mattered because the only thing that did matter was whatever he was about to tell me.
The silence lasted an eternity because he spent more time thinking about his words than actually expressing them. “I found her.”
I took my first true breath since I’d realized my daughter was gone. My hand clutched my chest, and I couldn’t hide my reaction from him. I couldn’t keep it inside. Relief hit me, knowing there was hope, that I would get my girl back. Nothing would stand in my way. “Where?”
Bartholomew had no reaction to my emotional response.
“Tell me.”
“It’s complicated—”
“Tell me!” I stepped toward him, my hands tightening into fists and making my knuckles ache from all the old injuries I’d sustained at his side.
He didn’t flinch at my outburst, didn’t even blink. “Hell took her.”
My chest started to rise and fall harder, processing those words without meaning.
