Page 67 of Little Blue

There’s a bitter bite to her words. She continues, “I’d had enough horror already. But that didn’t matter, because in the end, their son came home from college, and tried to take what wasn’t his. For a while, I was so afraid, I let him touch me?—”

Red bursts behind my eyes, like a vision of blood. My ears ring.

“Then one night, when he tried to take it further, I freaked. I clawed his face so badly; I had his skin under my nails. He’d been bleeding, shouting at me. But I’d been so afraid, I had my calculous textbook on the nightstand, and I slammed it into his head over and over. He’d been unconscious when Mrs. Wilson came into the room. Her scream stopped me—and I thought—I thought I killed him. I grabbed my backpack and ran.” She holds my eyes, tiny and brave, and so sad. “I became just another homeless kid lost to the system. No one looked for me, and I didn’t finish school. My first job, I was paid under the table. This whole time, I thought I killed him. I thought the Police were looking for me. I know now that I didn’t. I saw him not long ago, walking in the street.” It’s the first time she breaks eyes contact with me. “He ruined my life, and he didn’t even recognize me.”

My voice is a deadly calm. “What is his name?”

Her eyes, so bright and blue from her tears, snap to mine. Fuck, even her little nose is red-tipped.

“Why?”

Again, I give her honesty. “Because I have every intention of finishing what you started.”

“No.”

“You’re protecting him?” I’m surprised. And enraged.

How could she after…

“No.” She shakes her head, frowning as she draws her knees up into her chest. She sighs. “I don’t know.”

Reaching for her chin, I capture her in my grip. Forcing her eyes to mine, my voice is a dangerously low pitch that draws goosebumps to the surface of her skin. “I can find his name myself, but I want to hear it from you. Either way, his days are numbered.”

“Why? Because he touched me?” she demands.

“No. Because he touched what is mine.” Her parted lips snap closed. I lean in close, so close, I can taste the sweetness of her on my tongue. “His name, Little Blue.”

“Jeremy.” Her shoulders sag. “Jeremy Wilson.”

“Good girl.” I take her mouth with mine, stealing a slow, claiming kiss. I don’t stop kissing her until she kisses me back.

Flames rage in my veins.

A flame for the passion I feel for this woman. The obsession. The affection.

A flame for the rage I feel at the idea of anyone ever having hurt her, touched her, made her afraid and alone.

And a flame for the dark determination I feel inside to never allow this woman to fight the battle of life alone, ever again.

Twenty-Eight

Irelynn

After my bath, where Ilya finished washing me with a tenderness that belied the rage that stormed behind his eyes, he toweled me dry, dressed me in another of his shirts, and carried me to his bed. Lying on my side, I listened as he stripped from the clothes he’d worn in the day, to climb into the bed behind me. Like he did every night, he slid his hand up the front of my shirt to hold me in that way he does, and we fell asleep.

My mind had been in turmoil after I’d spilled the truth of my past. The anger, hurt, and betrayal I’ve felt ever since my father chose to leave me alone in this world came to spar with the grief I still struggled with every day.

I’d expected to lay awake long into the night. But to my surprise, and maybe a little horror, as soon as Ilya held me close, I’d fallen into a peaceful sleep.

It was after I’d woken, alone in bed with Lucy curled up into my belly, that I realized I’d gone to bed feeling safe and cherished.

In the morning, I’d lain there in his bed, in his room that smelled of him, struck by the reality that I was falling for my captor.

I’d told him things that I’d never told another living soul. Not even Rae knew what had happened with my foster brother, and how I’d feared for years, that I’d killed him. That I was wanted for murder.

I’d felt ill with the horror of my growing feelings for Ilya as I brushed my teeth and dressed in black leggings and a light pink, thin from one too many wears, sweater. I swiped the single ponytail I had—courtesy of Polina—from the vanity before I piled my long, strawberry blonde hair into a high ponytail.

I had no makeup and probably wouldn’t have worn it if I had it, but looking at myself in the mirror, I’d felt horribly lackluster. My name paid homage to my mother’s Irish roots, and it was from her I’d inherited the pink hue to the blonde of my father’s locks. She’d been beautiful, I recall, with fiery red hair and warm brown eyes. Like mine, her frame had been willowy and graceful. I’d inherited my eyes from my father—big and blue—with the corners tipped downward just enough to make the secrets I appeared to keep, sad.

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