Page 63 of Ricochet

“Callum?”

Stone’s voice pulls me back enough for me to realize my gaze had drifted away, out of focus. I bring my eyes back to his. The ones I used to hate seeing me, the ones I nowneedto see me. The ones that have saved me from different shadows, that can maybe save me from these too. The ones that bring me a sense of calm nearly as much as death does.

Even though they’re more than rain-washed right now, a fucking wreckage in a storm, there’s still something there that helps to ground me.

Slowly, I shake my head.

He moves his hand away from my face and down to my shoulder where he makes a fist, catching the fabric of my shirt in his grip. Clinging to me.

Despite my hands being tied behind my back, I’m clinging to him too.

“What did he do?” His voice is unsteady again, shattered.

“You can probably guess.”

If Lewis wasn’t already dead, I have no doubt Stone would be fixing that. There’s murder written all over his face. Judging by that alone, he already knows.

“Tell me?”

Again, the truth comes out, this time only a little easier than I would’ve expected. It’s still fucking hard. It still fucking hurts. I’ll still have nightmares and shadows. It still feels as though the words slice their way up my throat like razor blades.

“My mom died when I was eight. He started raping me when I was nine.”

A tortured noise escapes him. I’m surprised it didn’t come from me.

I’ve never spoken about this. Never.

I’m tied to a chair with a murderer perched on my lap, and I’ve never felt safer. Like he’ll catch me if the shadows pull me down too deep. He’ll drag me back.

Because I’m his.

Nowthe pained noise is my own.

I’m not ready for that.

I don’t think.

“Around the time I was thirteen or fourteen, he switched to beating me. I guess…” My stomach roils. Churning violently. I have to swallow down the saliva gathering in my mouth. Speaking it out loud for the first time just might make me sick. “I guess I got to be too old for him.”

And his friends that don’t have faces.

But Stone looks like he’s about two seconds away from picking up his gun and firing it at something, so I leave that out.

“I swear I’ll never let anyone hurt you ever again,” he says, voice deep and full of what should be a scary kind of promise.

“We play hockey, Stone.” The corner of my mouth lifts in a small grin. “That’s not an oath you can keep.”

“Fine.” His jaw ticks. “Then I swear to make anyone who hurts you pay.” He releases his hold on my shirt and picks his knife back up. “Including me.”

My eyes go wide as I watch him bring the blade to his neck.

I struggle against the ropes binding my wrists, but they have no give. “Stone—”

The knife glides across the soft flesh at the side of his throat in the same spot where he cut me, carving a crimson line. Beads of dark red blood drip down his smooth skin. He doesn’t even wince.

I frown as he lays the knife back on his thigh. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I did. But it’s still not enough.” His fingers are brushing through my hair again, a gentle touch that hypnotizes me nearly as much as the blood dripping down the column of his throat. “Tell me what you want, Cal. I’ll fucking give you anything.”

---