Page 120 of I Will Mend You

“I’m just cold.” The lie tumbles out before I can rein it back.

Xero wraps my hair in the towel and pulls away his hands. The absence of his touch eases my discomfort and, at the same time, breeds a sense of longing.

Casting my eyes to my lap, I study the silk trim on my robe to avoid meeting the accusation in his gaze. He’ll want details. Howmany times with his father? What did I do with the other men? What did I mean about letting them come in my mouth?

“I’ve made some tea.”

He strides out of the bathroom, leaving me alone with my confusion. Was he expecting something more? I adjust the robe in the mirror, keeping my gaze fixed on my neckline to make sure I’m not exposing an inch of scars.

A moment later, Xero returns with a tray laden with two glass cups of chamomile tea, a matching pot filled with dried chamomile flowers steeping in hot water, and a small jar of honey with a wooden dipper. Next to it is a plate of shortbread. He sets it down on the counter next to me with movements so careful and precise that I can tell he’s walking on eggshells.

Then he drops to a crouch, his eyes locking onto mine with a mournful intensity that makes my heart ache. I fight back tears, wondering if this is the moment he tells me it’s over.

I’m corrupted by the men from the asylum. Why would he want me now that I’ve been tainted by the father he despises?

“Take a sip,” he murmurs.

“What’s wrong, Xero?” I ask.

His eyes squeeze shut, and he exhales a long breath. “Just drink the tea, please.”

The vulnerability in his voice pulls at my heartstrings. I pick up a teacup, letting the warmth seep into my fingertips. The herbal scent of chamomile fills my nostrils, calming and grounding my spirit.

I take a small sip, the warmth radiating from my throat and spreading through my body. It tastes like comfort, like evenings spent at home curled up with an herbal brew and a book.

“Thank you,” I manage to whisper, my breath shallowing in anticipation of the bad news. The words hang heavily in the air, filling the silence that stretches on into what feels like an eternity.

Xero remains crouched at my side, watching me consume the entire cup before asking, “Shortbread?”

I shake my head, searching his features for something—anything beneath the guarded expression.

“What’s this about?”

A muscle in his jaw flexes. “Our enemies already made their next move.”

My brow pinches. “They bombed the safe house?”

“Those bastards should be rotting around the decoy building. But this is different. Your sister went on social media and made a confession.”

I wait for him to elaborate, but he reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a phone.

Its screen is open to a social media profile identical to the second one I set up before the book fair. The only difference is its username, which has a period between the name Amethyst and Ravenly.

According to Mom’s diary, my name isn’t Amethyst or even Crowley. Pushing away that thought, I look at the latest post, which has 11.5 million views. It’s supposed to be me, in a corset like the ones I wear on my podcast, but I would never display so much cleavage.

It’s Dolly, sitting against a green screen background of Xero’s mugshot.

“Good evening, Xeromaniacs,” she says in an exaggerated goody-two-shoes voice. “I have a confession for you all. Xero isn’t dead.”

My gaze flicks to Xero, who watches me, his expression grim.

Dolly continues. “I’ve been a bad girl. You see, I helped him escape the electric chair. Together, we’ve murdered a slew of enemies. Let’s see… There was Roger Stern, who you’ll know as Big Dick Johnson, StephenGlick, the Well Hung Man, Jake and Dale Ryland, Paul Brantley…”

After finishing the list of men Xero turned into a human centipede, she follows with Grunt, whose real name is Fenrick Greer, and the crew members we killed together, including Clyde Proctor. My stomach churns as she lists a bunch of important-sounding men, starting with Reverend Tom and ending with Deputy Chief Carl Hunter. Their pictures flicker in the background, making me grind my teeth at the sickening display.

“And of course, I murdered my mommy and my Uncle Clive,” she says with a practiced pout. “But you already know about that.”

My gaze flicks to the stats on the right-hand side of the screen. 2 million likes, 10.5 thousand comments, 132.1 thousand saves, and 173.3 thousand reposts.

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