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Callan
Death by my own hands. I read the words etched into my neck as the razor blade glides through the shaving foam. With each movement, the cream disappears, showcasing the intricate lines inked into my body. I still believe those words with every ounce of my dark being. My gaze adjusts, dipping further to where my angel’s eyes stare back at me from my chest. My shoulders rise, my chest expanding with emotion.
They say eyes are windows to the soul.
I’ve seen enough devoid gazes to know this to be true. I also know broken souls reach for tortured minds. It’s how my angel knows safety with me. We are one and the same. Tortured. Broken by the cruelty of others and by our own mistakes. Broken enough to no longer want to fix it with those cracked pieces, but to replace it with the fallen shards of each other. I want to fuse her broken parts to me and heal them before I return them to her and watch her flourish. She can only do that if I give her freedom.
“You’ve got that look.” Zara smiles, stepping into the bathroom and coming to wrap her arms around my waist. My gun presses into my side, and her small hands sweep up my front, momentarily covering her eyes painted on my chest. She may be Lia to the town residents and on paper, but she is Zara to me. The beautiful model who came to me for help.
“And what look would that be?” I reply, tilting my chin to give myself more access to my neck.
“Like something is bugging you, what’s up?”
I finish shaving and swill the razor in the water and pat my face clean.
“Are you happy here?” I ask, cleaning the sink as the water and hair are sucked down the drain.
“Yes.” Her voice is cautious, and when I chance a look up, she is staring at me through the mirror. “What’s going on?” she whispers.
That right there is fear. I can smell it a mile off and sense it with my own eyes closed. Even after a year of having me here by her side, fear controls her. She’s lived it so long that she no longer knows how to exist without it. It may only be subtle, and she is nothing like the woman I first met, but she can only thrive so much in this environment.
“Nothing, I was just asking.”
“You don't ask anything without having a reason. Cal, talk to me?”
“We are talking.” I grin and dip for a quick kiss.
“Why would you ask that? You know I’m happy? You're here.” She hops up onto the side and sidles until she is in front of me, her legs on either side of my waist. “I know something has happened.”
“It hasn’t,” I reassure her.
“It’s going to,” she retorts, lifting a perfect brow. “I’m going to worry now.” She purses her lips, and I press my mouth firmly to hers until her pout smoothes out and the frown on her forehead decreases.
“Well, don’t. You know I'd never let any harm come to you.” I secure her hips in my hands and lift her off the vanity, taking her with me through the villa. I duck us through an arch into our bedroom and lie her down. Fingertips dance over my lips and nip them, sucking a digit into my mouth. I bite it in place and quirk a brow.
“Can I have my finger back?”
“Are you going to stop stressing?” I mumble around said finger.
She’s thinking about it. “Are you going to tell me what’s really going on?”
I open my jaw, letting her finger go, and her arm drops away.
“No, I’m going to show you.” I stand fluidly and smirk down at her, glaring at me from the bed grumpily. I slap her arse. “Get ready, angel, and don't bother with the lenses,” I deliver before sauntering out, leaving her looking surprised in the bedroom.
I decide to wait out in the car, knowing that Zara will take forever getting ready if she can keep asking me questions. This way, the quicker she gets ready, the quicker she will get in the car. It’s another twenty minutes before she appears, and as she does, Stalin drives down the dusty road towards us. Unlike my angel, he knows what’s going on, and I wanted him to check on Isabella whilst we are out for the day.
“I take it you’re in on this, too?” Zara questions Stalin as he eases free from the car.
“I just came to say hi. Are you going out?” Stalin frowns, and Zara tuts, not in the least duped by him.
“Your girlfriend is out back.” Zara smirks, and my eyes narrow on Stalin, who holds up his hands.
“Not my girlfriend,” he states, shaking his head in despair at my prickly wife.
“Which angry bear are you trying to poke?” I question as she hops up into the vehicle. Although I said no lenses, Zara has donned large sunglasses.
“Whichever bites first.” Her pissed off tone makes me grin deeply. Her lips twitch, and I know then she is goading a reaction out of me. She thinks if she plays the upset wife, I will tell her.
