Page 19 of Unveiled

“You came for me,” I remind him as my tears choke me. “And you were there with me every single day, telling me to just stay strong. It’s not your fault.”

As my hands rest against his chest, too exhausted to hit him again, he pulls me to him and holds me tight as my sobs break through. My entire body shakes with the effort, but he sits there and takes it as calmly as he took the beating I just gave him.

Chapter 8

The Monster

Ihated saying all of that to her. Watching her break is never something I’ve been able to do, but this time, it was necessary. All of it was true, and she needed to hear it.

I won’t always be around to protect her, no matter how much I want to be. And as much as I hated saying all of it to her, it was the only thing I could think of to truly rile her up. Everything that happened to her, happened because of me. I’m selfish for not letting her live her life without me, especially after she made it out of that hell. But, if being selfish is what it takes to keep her by my side, then I’ll be the most selfish man alive.

When I brought her here, my plan was to hold her in my arms the entire week. Laying in bed, watching movies on the couch, taking baths together. All of that was on the list.

When she woke up and told me about her dream last night, things changed. I still wanted her in my arms, but I wanted her to be able to break out of them, too. I trust my head of security to keep her safe if I’m not around, but teaching her some self defense will make me feel even better. Especially if she’s taken again.

I have no doubt that she’ll use the skills I teach her to escape from me, but I also know my girl. She has a soft spot for me. She hates hurting me as much as I hate hurting her.

Yeah, right, scream the aches across my body where her tiny fists landed. She has some power with her punches, I’ll give her that. I’m sure she’ll be even stronger with adrenaline running through her system, rather than just anger.

Her sobs slow as I hold her to my naked chest and whisper soothing words into her hair. Words that completely contradict everything I just said to her, but none of it is a surprise to her. She knows exactly how I feel when it comes to her.

When she told me she wanted to hit me, I wanted to see what she could do. I knew I needed to make her angry enough to hit me, but when the words started coming, they spilled out of me. I couldn’t stop them. Whether it was to make her mad or to remind myself of how guilty I am, both of us needed to hear it.

As much as I want her back with me, I need her to know this life isn’t all sunshine and flowers. There’s danger, death, and more trauma than any one person should have to deal with. All of it will follow me, but I want her to hold my hand through it all.

“Let’s take a break,” I tell her as she sniffles and wipes her tears from her cheeks. Together, we walk back upstairs where I set her on the couch and choose a funny movie for her to watch. I don’t expect her to really watch it, but I hope it’ll make her feel a little better.

I want to stay and hold her to make her feel better, but I know I’m not the right person. Guilt is still bleeding out of me, and the last thing she needs is to be trying to comfort me while dealing with the turmoil inside of herself.

“I’ll be right back,” I promise, but she doesn’t even hear me, too consumed in the ghosts of the past.

I leave her there, not wanting to be more of a burden as I deal with my own turmoil. I climb the steps two at a time, rushing to get upstairs into my bedroom. There’s only one thing that will help me feel better right now.

As soon as I’m in my bedroom, I throw my mask on the bed and rummage around on the nightstand to find my knife.

Once I have the knife and I’m standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, I put the sharp edge to my skin and carve. Up, down, and across gives me a bloody A close to my right hip. The sting barely registers, but I can feel the guilt leaking out of me as blood trickles down my skin, soaking into my sweatpants.

One long stroke up and two small strokes across turns the I from a bright pink to a dark red. Now the pain is setting in, but I don’t let it stop me.

Next comes the N. A long stroke up, a slanted stroke down, and another stroke up. Then comes the S. This is the hardest letter, because the knife doesn’t curve the way it should in my skin to form the letter properly. It’s a box letter, with many different strokes. Once it’s complete, I breathe a sigh of relief. Halfway there, and already I feel better. She’s here with me. I haven’t forgotten why I’m seeking revenge, I’m only waiting for the opportunity to present itself.

One long stroke down and a shorter stroke to the left. Two more letters to go. She’s stronger than I think she is. She’ll get through this.

One long stroke down, and three strokes to the left, getting closer to the other side of my hips. The waistband is covered in blood now as it drips down in straight lines from the wounds I’ve caused myself. I’ve never understood why pain helps me heal, but when I started doing this, I didn’t question it.

Two short, slanted strokes finished by adding a long stroke down, and there it is. Her name, written across my abdomen, the blood making it hard to read as it leaves trails down to my waistband. It’s almost beautiful in its gruesomeness. The bright flow of blood contrasting my pale white skin.

“Are you in here?”

The sweet voice calls as I hear her footsteps whispering across the floor of my bedroom, seeking me out. Looking around frantically for something to hide the mess I’ve just made, I end up grabbing one of the towels we used only a few minutes ago when we got out of the bath. I wrap it around myself just as her head pops through the bathroom door and finds me.

Her eyebrows scrunch as she sees the towel wrapped around my waist, not understanding why it’s there. Especially since she’s only ever seen me wrap towels around my hips, and definitely not with pants on underneath. She looks around the room for clues, and I watch as she finally spots the bloody knife I threw haphazardly on the sink.

Without a word, she storms over to me and rips the towel off of me, revealing the bloody mess left behind. She inspects every inch, from the jagged lines to the blood-soaked waistband of my pants, and still says nothing.

“Ainsley -” I start, feeling nervous and needing to explain, but she cuts me off with a glare.

As I watch, she pulls her sweatshirt over her head and tosses it to the side, followed by her sports bra, leaving her torso bare to me. Still, without uttering a single syllable, she turns to the sink and grabs the knife. As she hands it to me, it’s my turn to look at her with confusion.

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