Page 45 of Born for Lace

Hate their kind.

Mine, too.

Submerging all but the little Lace Girl’s face in the blue pool, the water ripples around her perfectly formed figure. It’s hard to ignore such a feminine shape, wet and half-bared to me.

She groans as I wipe her face, noting the splits and cuts, the gashes and bloody paint. I see the very moment she comes to. Pain assaults her—cripples her. Her face tightening, auburn brows furrowing above long brown lashes waved over her wet cheeks.

“Tide,” she croaks, a throat full of tears.

Dead. He’s dead, and grief is not something I waste time on—an emotion without purpose.

“He was old,” I grunt.

With her eyes closed, helpless sobs escape her, jerking her entire torso in my arms. She suddenly screams as her physical pain and anguish collide, but she doesn’t stop weeping.

“Stop crying over that old fool.” I support her body as she trembles. “You’re broken.”

“Tomar!” she growls, green eyes snapping open, full of anger, disappointment, and betrayal that spear my calloused heart. “I don’t want you. You’ll never understand. He was myfriend.”

I grind my teeth.

Her need to mourn is a burden. I’m not a soft man. My skin is hide, a thick coat that holds darkness and depravities, but I need her to stop shaking her fragile body around.

“Stop fucking crying!” I growl, trying to scare her into obedience, and her eyes burn true hatred up at me. The kind the stars feel.

My iron-blood howls, and a fierce self-loathing twists the muscles that hold her.

Should drown her.

Save her from more of this... Pain. Loss. Reality. Death is sweet. A release. An end to suffering. She is too weak, innocent, and vulnerable for this damn world.

Too innocent.

They did that.

Kept her like this.

I inhale hard, close my eyes, exhale roughly, and open them to her glassy, bloodshot gaze. I try again. Gentle. Controlled. “Take it easy, little flower.” I keep my voice low and steady. “I need to find your wounds, so I know how to hold you.” I pause. She closes her tear-ridden eyes, locking the cold vision of me out, and nods her head once.

Good girl.

I push her red hair from her cheeks and splash the water on her wounds, gauging the depth by how quickly fresh blood swims out into the rippling pool. My chest aches. A real sense of guilt tears through me when I see the bruising waking up over her swollen ribcage.

Could have stopped this.

Guilt is another useless emotion.

My eyes travel over her supple, flat stomach submerged just below the water, and I frown. Is she hurt anywhere else? Why is she wearing this corset?

Don’t go there.

Cradling her with one hand, I brush the other across her abdomen, and her muscles tremble beneath my touch. I squeeze the length of each leg, checking for swelling, but I’m pretty certain all her injuries are above her waist.

Internal bleeding creates a bulb at her hip, but blood only leeches into the pool in small, elegant swirls of scarlet. It’s not heavy. I lift her from the water, and little fingers curl around the fabric of my shirt. I tense up.

Good girl.

Don’t look at me.

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