AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Ignoring the question, he returned his focus to the window, his expression hard, his eyes narrowed.
I couldn’t imagine someone intentionally mutilating and disfiguring their own face. It was then that I recognized Justin’s soul might be as tortured as my own.
“Come sit with me,” I whispered.
His eyes glinted in the firelight. Again, he didn’t know what to do. I took sick pleasure in the fact that I could do this to him.
I opened the blanket. “Come. Come sit with me.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Sophia.”
“Are you afraid I’m going to kiss you again?”
“I’m afraid I’m going to kiss you.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
After a brief hesitation, Justin joined me under the covers. We sat in identical positions, knees up, arms draped over them, eyes on the fire.
“When I was a girl, me and my cousin, Ana—the one who died in the car accident—had this thing where we would tell each other our deepest, darkest secrets with the pact that we would carry those secrets to the grave. We had a phrase,v krovi, which meantin bloodin Russian. Anytime we started a conversation with those two words, we knew that we had just entered a safe place. No judging, just listening. She was the only person I could talk to like that, and I sometimes think I would’ve gone mad without her and our safe place.” I looked at him. “You’ve never had a safe place, have you?”
“Why do you say that?” His voice was low and husky.
“Because I can see it in your eyes. You are a little mad, Justin. There is a side of you that is unrestrained, unchecked, and completely feral. Why did you mutilate yourself?”
He picked up a twig and tossed it into the fire. “My brother was killed.”
So, we’d both lost a lifeline.
“When?” I asked.
“Four years ago.” His focus turned to me. “Do you know what he was doing when he was killed?”
My stomach clenched.
“He was hunting Black Cell. He was killed because he got too close.”
Exhaling, I closed my eyes in shame, recalling all the times I’d heard my father ordering the assassination of undercover spies who had gotten “too close.”
“And this was why you cut yourself?” I asked.
What seemed like forever slid by, and just when I was sure he’d closed up again, he said, “In high school, I was always called Pretty Boy.” His brow cocked. “If you can believe that.”
“I can.”
He snorted, then looked away, and I wondered if he even knew how attractive he was.
“Nate—that was my brother’s name—was called Tadpole. He was tall and skinny. It was the only way we were different. After he died, I got really messed up on drugs and alcohol. One night, I grabbed a kitchen knife, went to the bathroom, and sliced open my face so that no one could ever call me Pretty Boy again.”
A flood of emotions rolled through my body, a soul-wrenching empathy that could only be understood by those who have been through such deep, life-changing trauma.
“No,” I whispered.
Justin looked at me, and for the first time, his expression was soft. His armor was cracking.
