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CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CARMEN
As soon as his eyes leave mine, I run. I know with him watching my every move, I’ll never get a chance, so I make my own. I also know I won’t get far, but I don’t let that slow me down. My feet slap the wooden floors until I finally make it to the door. I jerk it open, not even bothering to close it, then rush down the steps.
Normally, I would hear him behind me by now, but it’s silent. Too silent.
Don’t fucking do it, my inner voice rings out, but I ignore it and slow my pace before looking over my shoulder.
Big fucking mistake.
Charging through the dark, taking the same path I did, is a fucking dog. Not just any dog though. It’s at least two feet tall, making my five-foot-nothing frame seem smaller than normal. Its paws are massive from what I can see, kicking up dirt as he runs toward me.
It only takes me about three seconds to realize I’m fucked and pick the pace back up. I make a hard right and hit the same field as before. Another mistake. I was hoping I could avoid the thorny little balls, but they’re everywhere. The Band-Aids Cyrus put on earlier are little protection, but it makes the pain a little less torturing. It still isn’t enough though. I only make it a few more feet before I collapse and cry out.
Within seconds, the giant beast appears again, making me fall back to get away from its sharp teeth snapping at me. It stands over me, pinning me to the ground, with drool dripping from its snout as it growls, making sure I get a good look at the dagger-like teeth. Its weight crushes my chest, but I make sure to not move. I’m not even sure if I’m breathing.
“Tiny, down,” Cyrus’s voice rings out.
With that one simple command, the dog steps off me, and air rushes back into my lungs. I move back to a sitting position and rub the spot on my chest where his paw sat.
“He won’t hurt you.” Cyrus speaks again, finally coming into view.
“Yeah. He seems really friendly,” I snap, trying to drag myself back to my feet.
Cyrus rushes to my side and wraps a hand around my waist, helping me up. I want to push him away, but right now, I need the help. So, instead, I stay quiet and hop back to the house as he holds me.
When we make it back to the porch, he lifts me, cradling my legs in one hand and moving the other to my back. He carries me up the steps as the fucking horse follows. “Ready to talk now?”
He lays me back on the couch, more gentle than last time, as Tiny takes the love seat. “You weren’t kidding?”
He grabs the first aid kit he abandoned earlier, then moves back to the couch. Lifting my feet, he sits and lays them in his lap. “I wasn’t.”
I shake my head. “I don’t understand you.”
“Well, you never needed to.” He opens the kit and gets to work on my feet for the third time.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
He stills, stopping what he’s doing to look at me. “We were supposed to be no strings, remember?”
I let out a breath. The thought of me and him hooking up seems so far away when just a few days ago, it felt like it had just happened. Maybe that’s the trauma of the events finally settling in and taking precedence. Because fucking is minuscule compared to be kidnapped by a fucking contract killer.
“I’d rather not remember it,” I spit, and I mean it. At least I think I do. Because what would it say about me as a person if I still pined over this man? Still lusted over him.
I try not to think too deeply into it, but Lydia and Carter pop up, and it has my mind rolling. Their love is so fucking pure. Fucked-up a little, sure, but still pure and true. And if we’re looking at facts, Carter is a killer. He’s the same as his brother, but I never batted an eye when I heard about what he did. So, what makes Cyrus so different?
“I was sixteen,” he whispers, continuing his care on my feet and pulling me back to reality.
“What?”
“We’re talking, remember?” He stays calm, as always, but I can hear the hint of something else lingering under his tone. Hurt? “I was sixteen when I found my mom.”
I want to shut the conversation down because he couldn’t be bothered to talk before all of this, but I feel that would be shitty. He’s starting with his dead mom, for Christ’s sake, so I acknowledge and try to keep the conversation going. “I remember that. Not vividly, but I remember seeing Carter upset, and then his brother—you—were just gone one day.”
He nods. “I’m the one who found her.”
I feel my breathing slow. When I was younger, I knew how his mom died—everyone did—but I never understood what suicide really was until I was older. How am I even supposed to respond to his statement? It’s been years, so I’m sure he’s desensitized to the topic in a way, but then again, I wouldn’t know. Do you ever really get over the loss of someone? A parent, no less?
