Page 57 of Under Your Scars
“What do you mean?”
He lets out a deep sigh. “I got arrested last night for breaking Neil Hayden’s arm. After I bailed out of jail the Silencer found me and punched me in the face. At your request, according to him.”
“What do you mean,at my request?”
“He said you asked him to hurt me for hurting you.”
“No…no I didn’t. I didn’t! I…I…I can’t remember anything.”
All the terror and panic and unease that comes with being stalked crashes down on me all at once, and my body starts trembling. My hands begin to tug at my hair, and I tuck my knees up to my chest in the seat.
“Oh God,” I croak. “Christian.”
The car lets out a loud screech as it skids to a stop from how hard Christian hits the breaks.
Because that’s the first time I’ve used his name.
He puts the car in park and faces me, his eyes dark with worry.
I stare at him for a moment, taking in the bruise on his face that’s apparently my fault. The cut on his lip is my fault. Everything is my fault. All eight of those people, dead, because of me.
“I’m scared,” I admit, my voice cracking.
Christian sighs and then reaches across the car to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and then cradle my face in his warm, gentle touch. Salty, cold tears trail down my face as weeks of emotion overtake me.
“I’ll protect you,” he declares, and I wish I could believe him. I want to believe him so bad that it almost hurts. “I swear it on my life.”
“You can’t.”
“Yes, I can.”
I take a deep breath and wipe my face with the back of my hand while he watches me with a careful gaze. He settles back into his seat and begins to drive again. I don’t say anything else to him, keeping my face tucked into my knees.
“Elena?”
I turn my head to face him. He reaches across the console to take my hand in his. “I can’t be a good partner if you don’t let me fix my mistakes. Next time, talk to me.”
He’s right. It wasn’t his fault everything went badly at the restaurant, yet I’ve been blaming him for a comment he probably said because he was high on adrenaline. “I’m sorry.”
He kisses my hand as he drives past the intersection to get to my street. I wait two more blocks before I realize he’s not attempting to turn around.
I uncomfortably clear my throat. “You…you missed my street.”
“I know. I’m not taking you home.”
My stomach flips. “Where are you taking me?”
“My place.”
Apprehensively, I squeak out an ‘okay’, and then the rest of the ride is spent in awkward silence.
The Reeves Estate is the southernmost peninsula of Meridian City. The property is currently valued at $300 million. When we approach the gates, it’s even more beautiful than the pictures online. A large, wrought-iron gate opens to let us into the grounds, lush and green and beautiful. Well-trimmed trees line the long driveway. It feels like an eternity before the mansion comes into view, and it simply takes my breath away.
Bright white stone covers the exterior of the massive two-story mansion. It’s bigger than any home I’ve ever seen by at least five times. Wings are jutting off in every direction, and the square footage is probably a number that would make my head spin. There’s a large fountain out front in the middle of the circular driveway, with a gargantuan marble statue of an angel in the center, pouring water out of a gold decanter. I have half a mind to ask if it’s real gold.
I wouldn’t be surprised.
The double front doors of the mansion are black wrought iron with ornate sconces on either side, a matching chandelier hanging above the porch to provide a warm glow. Christian exits the car and opens the door for me, holding out a hand to help me out of my seat.
