Page 23 of Ricochet

“I need you to breathe with me, Callum. Can you do that for me?”

He doesn’t respond, but I didn’t expect him to.

“Come on. Breathe in and count to five.”

I take a deep breath, willing him to do the same. He does, his chest shaking as I count to five in my head.

“Now let it out slowly.”

Again, he does.

“That’s good. You’re doing really good. Now again.”

We go through it a few more times until his breathing matches my own. He’s relaxed enough for his grip on my shirt to ease up, but he still hasn’t let go.

I don’t think I want him to.

“You’re okay.” I’m not sure when my thumbs started tracing the apples of his cheeks, but he’s not pulling away. So I don’t stop. “Keep breathing just like that. I’m not going anywhere, okay? Just give it some time. You’ll be alright.”

He swallows hard. When he speaks, his voice is wrecked and raw. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I won’t let you not be.”

His brows draw together.

He licks his lips.

My eyes track the movement of his tongue.

The weight on my shirt disappears as he suddenly releases me. I take that as my cue to drop my hands and take a step back to give him space.

We both continue to watch each other cautiously. I pay close attention to his breathing, making sure he’s not going to fall back into the attack. He seems mostly calm now, but all the blood is still drained from his face.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

He shakes his head. “I just wanna get out of here.”

I don’t want to let him go, but I do. I watch as he turns, opens the door, and walks out.

Leaning my ass back against the nearest desk, I open my bag and pull out the lab papers that got crinkled in my haste to shove them inside. I shuffle them until Callum’s is on top.

This clearly wasn’t the work of Callum the artist. He colored in nearly the entire right side of the skull, red bleeding out of the lines. The pressure of each stroke of the pencil varies, getting harder the closer he got to the eye socket where there’s that tear through the page.

The longer I stare at it, the more vivid my memories come back to me.

A dimly lit kitchen, only illuminated by the glow of the streetlamp pouring in. The stench of stale alcohol. A large man nearly twice my size. The weight of the brick in my hand as I smashed it into his face.

I didn’t stick around obviously, but I remember the way his right eye popped while he was still alive. The way his skull caved in as I struck him over and over.

I don’t remember much about any of my kills since my first three, but for some reason, that one stuck with me more than the rest. Maybe because I knew Callum. Even though I tried hard not to make it personal, it was difficult to forget what I had seen. To forget what that man had done to him.

For the past five years, I’ve forced myself to forget by thinking of Callum somewhere safe. Somewhere no one else could hurt him.

When I killed for him, it undoubtedly sparked every protective instinct I had. I snuffed it out, made sure the flames were extinguished. Apparently, a few embers remained.

I can’t deny this growing protectiveness I feel over him.

Even if it’s protecting him from himself.

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