Page 96 of Vengeful Rotten Casualties

“Come on, baby,” Luc says quietly. “Let’s get you in the shower.”

I close my eyes and let him lead me along. I don’t resist as he pulls me into the bathroom or when he strips away both his clothes and my own, wincing when he lifts his arms too high, before leaning over and turning the knob. As steam fills the room, fogging up the mirror and glass, I stare down at the strips of thick white tape over his side. Bruises mar his skin. Up and down his ribs, peeking out from under the tape.

Red marks and cuts and wounds litter the two of us. There are burns on my hand—from the gun maybe? When did that happen? My temples throb, distracting me, and Luc urges me into the shower stall.

Hot water pours out from overhead, running down my sore back. Luc stays firmly out of the range of water as he attempts to keep the tape on his side dry. Probably should have put plastic on that, but I don’t say anything. I can’t.

He must be freezing, but he doesn’t hesitate to push me further under the spray and then squirt shampoo on his palm. His fingers scrub through my hair, massaging my scalp. More tears fill my eyes. I turn away so he can’t see. They run down my face, washing away with the water.

Silence descends between us.

I fucking hate silence.

Silence breeds contemplation.

I don’t want to contemplate. I don’t want to think. I close my eyes as Luc rinses the shampoo from my hair and then lathers it with conditioner. I remain stone still as if any sudden movement will break the spell we’re both under. Me, the doll. Him, the caretaker.

Luc is kind. He is careful and gentle. He doesn’t push me to speak. He simply washes me as if he can sense how filthy I feel. It’s sweet, but even I know there’s no way I can ever erase the sin from my body. I’m dirty all the way down to my bone marrow. In ways that cannot be purified.

Still, he treats me as if I’m something fragile. Time ticks past and only once he’s done washing me does he turn the attention on himself. I stand back and watch him take a washcloth, wet it, and scrub his skin, moving around the tape on his body. My eyes fall to his hands—much like my own—they’re covered in tiny wounds from the glass. Some of the wounds even have a few little black knots, stitches.

I feel my lips twitch in minor amusement. We’re like a patchwork couple, the two of us. Sewn together with blood ties that infect us even as they keep our organs from spilling out.

Luc quickly finishes with himself and together, we move out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. He dresses me in one of his large workout shirts and tucks me between the sheets of his bed, his arms around me as the sky brightens outside of the curtains across the room.

For the longest time, I close my eyes, praying for the oblivion of sleep once more. It never comes for me. Luc, on the other hand, is asleep within the hour. His soft breaths puffing over the back of my head as his arms rest along my side.

The sun gets brighter and brighter, filling up the room. I should be asleep. I should be so fucking exhausted that it doesn’t matter that the room isn’t dark. Luc certainly doesn’t seem to mind it.

After what feels like forever, I finally realize that there’s no more trying. As delicately as possible, I lift Luc’s arm away from me and crawl out from beneath him. The bed shifts as I drop one foot to the floor and then the other. Once I’m up, I turn and make sure that Luc’s still asleep.

With his face turned towards the window, eyes shut, and brow puckered with exhaustion, he looks so fucking young. Just like he did at sixteen. I want to reach out and touch his face, push the golden hair that’s fallen across his cheek back, but to do so would risk waking him and I can’t do that. Not when I know he’d stop me from what I’m about to do.

I force myself to leave him there and go into the closet, finding my luggage under the rows of clothes he has. I rummage through it and dress in warm jeans and a long black sweater. My mind, as foggy and detached as it was, is slowly clearing. I make my way back into the bedroom and for the longest time, I just stand at the end of the bed, looking down at the man who changed my life. The man who gave up everything for me. His father. His own revenge. His pride. His heart.

It seems I was wrong when I told Thomas that I didn’t have any mercy left in me. Because for Luc, I still have it. Mercy is what makes me round the bed and go through the nightstand until I find a loose receipt and a pen—a cheap way to do this but it’ll have to do. I turn the paper over and click the pen. Scribbling a quick note, I set it gently on the pillow next to Luc’s head and take a step back.

I have to go now,I tell myself.If I don’t … I may never have the courage to do this again.

Downstairs, I snag one of the keys along the wall of hooks in the garage and pray that the door opening won’t wake him before I get away.

I forged myself into a weapon, and now the battle is over and I have no more use.

I’m done fighting.

Myself. My thoughts. And him.

I’m done fighting them all.

41

LUC

I’m goingto kill her. Put my hands around her throat and strangle her. It’s the only way this can go. Either her death … or mine. And even then, I still hope it’s mine. The stitches in my hand burn and stretch as I clench my fingers into a fist. My chest is tight—full of anger that is untapped. Unreleased. She can’t do this to me. To us. Not after everything. He’s not worth it. Fuck. He was never worth it.

I set the note down and pick up my cell, dialing the number that I should know by heart now I’ve called it so much in the past twenty-four hours.

Dean picks up on the second ring. “Carter.” I can tell by his bark that he didn’t look at the caller ID.

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