Page 99 of Under Your Scars
I have always used violence or money to get what I want.
What I want, I can’t put a price on.
As for violence? Well, that wouldn’t exactly work in my situation, either.
I wonder if Elena will ever forgive me for ruining her life.
Anger has always been my go-to stage of grief. A short fuse and a heartbreak are a volatile combination.
Which is where addiction comes in.
I’ve smoked an entire pack of cigarettes, and it’s not even nine in the morning before I’m dying for another one. The withdrawals are so bad that I’m itchy and restless, and I can’t tell if it’s because of the nicotine or because there’s a giant fucking chasm in my chest where my heart once sat.
I came to the office at three in the morning in a black hoodie and jeans, too brokenhearted to make the effort to look like a CEO. I couldn’t be there when she left the mansion with her family. I don’t think I could have just sat there and accepted it. I would have done something stupid to keep her there, and I don’t want her to hate me any more than she already does.
With a loud, feral roar, I flip my glass desk and watch it shatter into millions of pieces across the floor. Something small and black catches my eye on the floor in the middle of all the glass.
It looks like a spider.
Well, itisa spider, but not a living spider. A plastic spider. One of the rings Caroline gave Elena and I when she demanded we get married. I squat down to grab it, dusting off tiny shards of glass, and I let out a sad scoff before putting it around my ring finger like it actually means a goddamn thing.
I slump into Elena’s desk chair, plucking off a large picture frame from her desk. It’s that drawing Caroline gave her, the one with the three of us together on a bench.Fuck. Elena and I love that little girl. We were going to adopt her, but by losing Elena, I lost any hope I had of having a daughter, too.
You don’t have to be married in New Jersey to adopt. But what would I say to Caroline? How would I explain that the woman she desperately wants to be her mommy isn’t ever coming back?
I can’t do that to her. It would be cruel and confusing.
Not to mention the fact that I’m a cold-blooded murderer.
Elena told me I’d be a good father, but that was before she knew how sadistic I am. Heartless, ruthless creatures like me don’t make good parents. Or good lovers.
Several stray droplets of water fall onto the frame, and I realize I’m crying. I wipe the teardrops from the frame with the sleeve of my hoodie and then push them up to my elbows. I frown when I see the gauze wrapped around my left wrist soaked with blood.
After I wrote that letter to Elena, I spent an hour working up the strength to leave the mansion, and during that sorrowful hour, I annihilated my wrist. Tonight, I’ll have to move on to my other wrist, because I’ve run out of space. Elena made me promise I wouldn’t hurt myself, but that was only because she couldn’t bring herself to say what she really wanted to. She doesn’t want me tokillmyself.
I can’t understand why. What am I to her except a serial killer and a liar? Who am I except the man responsible for putting a target on her back? The man responsible for getting her kidnapped and raped.
I stand up to walk to the private bathroom of my office, to run my arm under cold water and use a hand towel to soak up the blood until it clots. The steady stream of the faucet stings when it trails down my skin, taking blood with it. The pristine white porcelain of the sink is painted in a faint rust as my blood dilutes in the water.
From around the corner, I hear the faint whoosh of the elevator door opening, and my face twists into a snarl.
“If you value your job in any way, you’ll get the fuck out,” I warn the intruder. I’m not in the mood to play CEO. I’m not in the mood for anything except a pack of cigarettes and an entire bottle of single malt scotch.
I rest my knuckles against the cool marble of the countertop and turn my head slightly, waiting for the distinct unease of an empty room to settle in the air. But it doesn’t. Growling, I stomp out of the bathroom.
And I collide with an angel.
She stumbles backwards a few steps, and I freeze. I feel like all the air in my lungs has been knocked out of me, and I stare at her as if I’ve seen a ghost.
She’s got big tears in her eyes, the subtle gold flecks in her irises shining brighter than I’ve ever seen them, twinkling like they’re a light source. Clutched in her delicate fingers is the note I left on the bed for her detailing all the things I didn’t have the strength to say to her face before she left me. Her perfect, pouty bottom lip quivers and she sways on her feet like she can’t quite keep her footing steady.
I take a step towards her. She takes a step back, and without thinking, I reach out to take her cheeks in my hands. She cowers away.
“Don’t touch me,” she says, smacking my hands away. When that doesn’t stop me, she holds out an arm to keep me at a distance. When that doesn’t stop me either, she punches me in the chest and then smacks my cheek. I catch both of her wrists and hold them firmly at her side. She whimpers and trembles, and the closer my face gets to hers, the less she breathes, until she’s nearly purple.
When my lips brush across her forehead with a soft kiss, she begins to hyperventilate and sob.
“Let me go! Christian, let me go!”
