Page 75 of Massacre
“What did you promise them?” I whispered, voice trembling, more accusation than question. “What the hell did you give up for me?”
His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking along the edge of his cheek. Shadows flickered in his eyes, old ghosts rising, refusing to be named. For a moment, I thought he might actually tell me—confess whatever bargain he’d struck, whatever piece of himself he’d carved away and handed over so I could walk free. But he only looked past me, gaze fixed on some dark memory playing out on the cracked ceiling.
“I did what had to be done,” he said, his words gravel rough. “Doesn’t matter now.”
“It does to me,” I pressed, my voice losing all pretense of steadiness. “You traded something—someone like you doesn’t just give up their patch, not without a price. Tell me, Massacre. What did you owe them?”
He let out a breath, slow and shaky. “It was never about owing. It was about debt.”
I shook my head, unsatisfied, my heart pounding so loud it drowned out the silence. “You act like that’s different.”
He finally met my eyes, the pain behind them raw and unguarded. “It is,” he murmured. “Owing is something you pay back. A debt—a debt is forever. And some debts you can’t pay.”
The weight of his words pressed down, heavier than before, and I realized the truth was more than a single answer. It was a thousand decisions, every one of them sharp as broken glass. I reached out, my fingers brushing his, desperate to anchor myself in something real.
“I didn’t ask for this,” I said, barely a whisper.
He offered a sad, crooked smile. “Neither did I, but I’d do it again.”
I sat in the hush, the night pressing close, unsure how to keep going—or if I even could.
Sitting in the living room of the small cabin, I tried to read one of the books Ellie and Ryder sent over. Anything to get my mind off my father and whatever else Massacre hadn’t told me yet. But every time I started getting into it, I would hear Massacre sigh loudly, then seconds later he would ring that insistent bell someone gave him.
Slamming the book closed again, I marched back into the bedroom and growled, “WHAT NOW?”
The annoying man just smiled. “I’m bored.”
“Then read one of the damn books Ryder sent over for you.”
Massacre grumbled, picked up a book, and read the cover, “How Not to Be an Asshole.” Throwing it to the side, he picked up another. “Secrets and How They Hurt,” and another, “Bad Boys Get Punished, oh, and my favorite,The Art of Friendship. How Not to Be a Dick!”
Covering my mouth, I tried to stem my laughter. Swallowing loudly, I cleared my throat and said, “Well, did you learn anything?”
He growled. “Not funny, woman.”
I shook my head, unable to keep the smile from tugging at my lips. “You could always try writing your own book. Title it ‘How to Annoy Your Roommate in Ten Easy Steps.’ You’d have plenty of material.”
Massacre tossed a pillow at me, but it was half-hearted, more an invitation than a threat. “You think you’re clever. But you’re the one who keeps coming back in here.” His voice softened, almost vulnerable. “You could leave me alone, you know.”
I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “And let you wallow in self-pity all night? Not a chance.”
He sighed, staring at the ceiling, the bravado flickering out of him for a moment. “Sometimes, I don’t know what to do with myself. Sitting still isn’t exactly what I’m known for.”
“Neither of us are made for this,” I admitted, voice quieter now. “But we make do.”
A silence fell between us, this one gentler, less strained. For once, the hush didn’t feel heavy—it felt almost companionable. I thought of the books, the bell, and the way he grumbled through every moment, and realized that maybe, just maybe, we were both a little less alone than we’d been before.
He picked up the last book, turning it over in his hands. “Maybe you should read me something. You’ve got the voice for it—soothing and annoying at the same time.”
My laughter bubbled up, warm and real. “Fine. But I pick the story. And if you ring that damn bell again, I’m reading the dictionary cover to cover.”
He grinned, settling in, and for the first time that night, I let myself hope that things could change—if only a little.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Massacre
I didn’t know whose bright idea it was to ship my ass off to some secluded cabin in the middle of fucking nowhere, but when I got my hands on the motherfucker, I was kicking his ass.
