Page 12 of Spooked
Wolfe freezes, his eyes meeting mine with a look of horror before he quickly turns away, fumbling to reposition the mask with one hand while still holding the crank with the other.
Without hesitation, I step forward and place my hand on his arm. "Let me help."
I expect him to protest, but instead he goes still at my touch. I gently take the mask from his trembling fingers and position it back over the left side of his face, securing the strap.
"There," I say softly.
When I step back, his gaze is locked on me, searching for something. Disgust? Pity?
"You didn't..." he starts, then stops.
"Didn't what?"
"Flinch. Grimace. Look away." His voice is hoarse. "Everyone does."
I meet his eyes steadily. "I'm not everyone."
The security shutter chooses that moment to grind open, revealing a panicked Howie and Ghost on the other side.
"Thank god!" Howie exclaims. "I swear I didn't touch anything! The system just went haywire and?—"
"Fix it," Wolfe cuts him off, voice tight. "Now."
Without another word, Wolfe strides past them and disappears down the corridor, leaving me standing in the thinning fog.
Ghost gives me a searching look. "You okay?"
I nod.
I've just seen the real man behind the mask—and what I saw wasn't a beast at all, but a hero who carries his courage there on his skin for anyone brave enough to truly see.
CHAPTER 4
WOLFE
I retreat to my bedroom, my heart pounding wildly.
My face burns beneath the mask, and not from the scars, but from shame, from exposure, from the memory of her eyes on my ruined flesh.
Except, she didn't…recoil.
The thought circles my mind like a predator, dangerous and impossible to ignore. I pace the length of my room.
Gothic decor meets modern comfort here: with an enormous four-poster bed with dark curtains, antique furniture alongside state-of-the-art technology hidden within vintage casings. The walls are deep burgundy, lined with bookcases filled with everything from classic literature to technical manuals on everything from stage make-up to special effects. It’s a reflection of my personal taste to a T.
I stop at the ornate mirror that dominates one wall, a relic from my grandmother's time.
Slowly, I remove the mask.
The face that stares back is the one I've lived with for eleven years. The right side—normal, unremarkable even. Strong jaw, green eye, lines beginning to form at the corner from age and stress. The left—a roadmap of violence. Scarred tissue pulls my eye slightly downward, then there’s the melted cartilage of my ear, and the rippled surface where skin grafts took but never quite matched. The path of destruction continues down my neck, across my shoulder, and along my left arm where I shielded my face from the worst of the blast.
Ash saw this…the woman who stirs something inside of me I’ve long put to rest.
A knock at my door startles me and I quickly replace the mask. "What?"
"It's Ghost." His voice is muffled through the heavy wood. "We need to talk."
I consider ignoring him, but that never works. The bastard is persistent as hell.
