Page 66 of Crimson Tears

“Why the celtic knot?” I keep him talking, needing a distraction and seeing that he needs to get some of this pain off of his chest.

“I told Nessa once that the knot stood for love, for us, for forever. I guess that was my way of showing her, and myself, that she was real and that she was my forever. There never was another woman for me and there could never be.”

“And the red?” It was such a bold statement that I had to assume it had meaning behind it as well.

“A few reasons. After Enya’s death, Nessa colored her hair blood red. I saw the strands stained with Enya’s blood when they took her away; I could never get that picture out of my head. So, the red was for Enya, my reminder that I failed her, failed them both, and I needed to make sure I didn’t fail anyone else who needed me again.”

His head hangs low, but I am beginning to realize just how much saving these kids means to him. In his mind, it is his redemption for not saving Enya. The blood stained eyes on hisforearm also make sense now. I would put money on them being Enya’s.

“We will get out of here,” I tell him. He does not seem to believe me though.

“Kid, look at me.”

Ever so slowly, he lifts his eyes to meet mine. The depth of their darkness is nearly consuming. His gaze has this way of making you believe Hell is real. It is as terrifying as it is comforting to know that such a place exists. Terrifying because I deserve to be there, but comforting because so many others who have caused pain and harm deserve it too.

“We will get through this…together.”

Those dark eyes soften, and a gentle smile tugs one side of his lips. He knows what that word means to me, what it means to Nessa, and it’s what I can offer him right now. Because, like it or not, the three of us are staying together.No matter what.

“Together,” he nods, sealing the deal.

Chapter 19

Two weeks of recovery after a building literally fell on top of me, and I still don’t feel back to normal. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that Boris helped me fake my own death. Or it could be that I’m living in the suite connected to his office and now working with him.

Is it the closet full of nice clothes he bought me, or the fact that my bathroom is something straight out of a fairytale?

All I know is the more nice things that surround me and the more comfortable he tries to make everything, the more fear claws at me. It’s both frustrating and anxiety provoking.

When it’s just the two of us in his office, working, it feels normal. But when we’re in his personal space, it’s as if I am his roommate that he buys nice things for.

The salary his company pays me is more than enough for me to get everything I need for myself, but still, he insists. And when I say no, he does it anyway.

At one point, I did try to ask to have my salary cut in half because there was no way it was normal for someone like me, but then Boris showed me it was the same amount he pays his secretary, and that helped.

I guess, at the end of the day, I just fear all of it will be taken away in the end. I don’t want to get used to the nice shampoo or fancy bubble baths because what if I have to leave it all behind?

Some people may be good at enjoying the present, but I’m simply not one of those people. Nearly every nice thing that has been given to me by a man in my life has come with a price. All but one man at least.

And I’m terrified to figure out what price Boris will ask of me.

Tossing the covers off, I figure sleep is nowhere in sight for me. I need a cup of tea and maybe to sit in the office for a bit. It’s strange that in a room full of everything I could ever want or ask for, the place that feels most like comfort is the room that smells most like him.

Scotch and cigars. Intimidating, but inviting.

After making a hot cup of tea, I push open the door to the office, surprised to find him sitting at his desk with the lamp on.

“Oh,” I say, frozen in the doorway. “I didn’t know you would be here at this time of night.”

His hair looks tussled, and he’s dressed down, which I don’t get to see often. His strong arms, usually trapped behind a suit, are on full display now and it draws my attention.

“Little Fox?” My eyes snap up to his, the blue seeming so much darker in the dimly lit room. “What are you doing here?”

I bite my bottom lip, letting it slide though my teeth as I try to think of an excuse. Nothing really comes to mind, so with a small sigh I tell him the truth.

“I wanted to sit by the window and drink some tea,” I say, walking over to the floor to ceiling windows that look down on the entire city. Some days, I swear the building is so tall it sways in the wind, but it’s comforting in a sense too.

Up here, nothing can touch me. At least, nothing I’m afraid of.

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