Page 17 of Hot Blooded
For a moment, I consider lying—making up some story about how I’ve loved reading since I was a small girl, or that I imagine writing my own novel one day. I surprise myself by wanting to tell the truth. One truth.That’s our thing, right? After a moment, I find my voice. “It’s a long sad story.”
His fingertips pause on my skin, and he meets my eyes. “I have time.”
I almost laugh at the absurdity, because as an immortal, time is the one thing Reign has in spades, but a somber mood has already descended around us in anticipation for what I’m about to tell him.
“Are you sure you want to hear it?” I give him one last chance to back out.
He nods.
I take a slow breath. “It’s a story I’ve never told anyone. Unless you count a therapist once.” But I sob so hard through our session that I doubt she understood much. The story was too fresh then. The wounds not yet healed. Although I’ve learned they never actually heal. Only scab over a little, and if they are picked at, every awful emotion will come swelling to the surface again. Grief. Anguish. Guilt.
The guilt was the worst.
But Reign isn’t picking. Only asking. He’s giving me the choice. And maybe it’s because he is the way he is, the fact that he himself has, no doubt, walked through some hard things of his own, it makes me want to trust him. To open up to him. He’s not hidden anything from me.
“I never knew my father,” I begin, which is a little off-topic for the story du jour, but it will all make sense soon enough. “It was just my mom and I for a while. She’d gotten pregnant toward the end of high school, so she was young when she had me. And because she was young, she liked to go out and party and drink and pretend she didn’t have responsibilities at home.” I can’t really blame her. She was young and immature and unprepared for motherhood. Reign waits patiently, not saying a word. “Later, when I was about six, my mom had gotten pregnant and had another baby. My half-sister, Libby.”
Just saying her name makes my chest ache and throb.
Reign lifts my hand from my lap and holds it within his own, seeming to sense my inner discomfort. The rain picks up outside, lightly drizzling against the window panes across from where we sit.
“I often got stuck babysitting her. Libby’s father was still in her life and honestly? That bothered me, I guess. I’d never known my father. And she spent every other weekend with hers. But when she was at our house, I was expected to watch her the nights my mom went out, which was most nights.”
He doesn’t know where this story is going, but Reign doesn’t look anxious or concerned. I almost hate blindsiding him, but there’s really no other way. I carry on, even as unease swims inside of me.
“I was sixteen. Well, almost, the following day would be my birthday and my friends were taking me to an arcade. Libby was ten. I tucked her into bed and told her not to move, not to get out of bed, and not to make a peep. I was going to go out for a little while with friends. She said she was scared, but I told her she was being a baby and I promised she would be okay. I gave hermy stuffed bear, told her I didn’t need it anymore and she could sleep with him.”
A single tear slips down my cheek.Reign’s thumb brushes it away as his mouth pulls into a frown.
“Once she was tucked in, I went out with my friends. We played arcade games and took silly photo-booth pictures. We collected tickets and hunted for prizes.”
Emotion wells inside me. My shoulders shake with tears now. I’m not sure how I can say the rest of the words. It’s too painful. Too raw. I sob quietly, covering my face with my hands.
It’s obvious he hasn’t much practice in soothing crying females, but Reign is so, well, perfectly Reign. Elegant and understated and quietly brooding. He brings his strong arms around me and gathers me close. Holding me against his firm, still chest, I cry into his shoulder. I remember the cheap plastic prizes I’d been excited about—they all went straight in the trash after.
Wet eyelashes leave marks on his shirt as I lean against him and feel him trace small circles on my back. His presence is steady, and calming, and after a few moments, I find the strength to continue.
“What happened? Reign asks softly. His voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it.
I inhale sharply and then push the next words from my mouth in a rush. “The house caught fire that night.”
Steadying myself, I swallow and draw another breath, then I lift my face from his chest, so I can measure his reaction. It’s possible he may hate me by the time I’m finished with this story.
But his eyes show nothing but his remorse at my having to re-experience such a painful memory.
“My mom had left a curling iron plugged in. But if I’d been home, I would have caught it in time. I would have gotten Libby out when the smoke alarm went off. I was the one who told her not to move, not to get out of bed.And she hadn’t… Not even when the alarm shrieked.”
My throat burns with the words. He must hate me, must think I’m a monster. I just left her there to burn. She was a child. Still so small and sweet and innocent. And I was in charge of keeping her safe. I had failed in every single way that mattered.
“She made it, but just barely. They found her curled in a smoldering ball in the stairwell, still tightly clutching that teddy bear. She had burns over a lot of her body. She spent months in the hospital.”
“But she recovered?” he asks.
“Eventually.” I sniff. “She was so beautiful, Reign. Perfect. She still is,” I correct myself. “But she has scars… much of her body.” I can barely get the words out. “… the side of her face.” Permanent reminders of my mistake.
“Tressa.” He touches my cheek. “It wasn’t your fault.” I don’t respond. “You know that, right?” he asks, voice strained.
I lick my lips and inhale a slow, shaky breath. Itismy fault and I hate myself for it. I’ve been so stupid and self-centered, and just left her there without thinking of all the things that could go wrong.
