Page 186 of Under Your Scars
“What happened to your arms, daddy?”
For some reason, the corner of my mouth tugs up into a small smile. I’ve never had to explain the scars on my wrist. The few people I’ve let see them didn’t need an explanation, and I never thought I’d have kids, so I haven’t quite figured out an age-appropriate answer to tell her. I always have long sleeves on around her. This is, quite literally, the first time she’s seen my arms.
I can tell by the tension in Elena’s body that she’s curious what my answer will be.
“When I was a kid, something really bad happened to me. I was really angry and sad. Those feelings like to fight a lot.” I stretch out my arm and use my fingers to trace along the scars. “All of these remind me of when I was in the middle of the battle and didn’t know how to stop them.”
“What stopped them from fighting?” Caroline asks through a yawn.
“Love did, Caro,” I whisper, kissing the crown of her head. “Love did.”
CHAPTER 58
THE ANGEL
Panic.
Ice cold panic.
That’s all I feel. It grips me with its frigid fingers and won’t let me go.
I can still taste his blood in my mouth. Can still feel his skin under my fingernails.
Can still see the way he looked at me when I shoved a shard of glass into his chest.
It’s the middle of the night. I can’t sleep. I can’t even close my eyes without seeing the terrifying reality of what I’ve done.
“Christian?” I whisper against Caroline’s hair. I know he’s awake. He’s always awake when he’s worrying about me.
“Yeah, angel?” he whispers back, and I can’t bring myself to say anything else. The air goes quiet and stale. Anxiety creeps up my spine. It feels like spiders with their long legs dancing across my skin.
“Tell me about the first person you killed.”
The resonating silence that follows feels heavy. I’ve never asked Christian to relive his kills. I’ve always been curious, but a part of me always accepted the fact that the less I knew about that part of his life, the better. The less complicit I would feel.
Because that’s what I am. The complicit, docile wife of a serial killer.
Christian lightly pokes Caroline in the cheek to check that she’s still asleep, and then lets his head fall back against the pillows.
“His name was Peter Sims. Drug dealer. I was out looking for noses to break and came across a man holding another man and a young kid at gunpoint. I don’t know—the trauma just hit me, and I snapped. I broke his neck before he even realized I was there.” Christian takes a deep breath. “I buried him near the shoreline. Body washed up a week later and the police identified him.”
I don’t know why I expected his first kill to be ceremonious or meaningful in some way. “Did you ever feel bad?”
“No,” he answers immediately. “I’ve never regretted any of my kills. I’ve never lost sleep over them. The only time I ever felt anything was when cops would stumble across a body. I was always afraid they’d somehow tie it to me, but eventually, I stopped caring about that too. Now it’s not even an afterthought.”
I wish I could be nonchalant about it like he is.
“I killed the Silencer.”
Christian scoffs. “We’re already married. You don’t have to flirt with me.”
The silence that follows his joke is nearly tangible.
Christian sits up slightly, his face twisting into an unknown emotion when he looks at me, to find tears on my cheeks and a terrified look in my eyes. With careful precision, he gets out of the bed and comes to my side, helping me to my feet and then quietly walking us to the bathroom and locking the door behind us.
He turns to face me, his body relaxed, but the look on his face is a mixture of concern, disbelief, and maybe even a bit of pride.
“Tell meexactlywhat happened.” Even though I trust him, I find it hard to admit it out loud. He takes a step towards me and tries to reach out a comforting hand. “Elena—”
