Page 8 of Beautiful Sinners

Constantine sits down on the side of the bed, taking me with him since I won’t let him go, but he doesn’t seem to want to let me go either. I lean back in his embrace, and his eyes fall shut as I tenderly kiss every mark on his face.

Tristan situates himself on the bed at Constantine’s back, facing me, his expression stern but his whiskey eyes remain soft when our gazes meet.

“Stop.”

Tristan’s fingers play with the ends of my hair. “Stop what?”

“Stop looking at me like I’m fragile.”

His full lips briefly curve in a small smile before they pull tight into a grim line. “You are far from fragile, Red, but right now, I am.”

Oh.I reach a hand over Constantine’s shoulder and caress Tristan’s handsome, worried face. He covers my hand with his and holds it to his cheek.

“Was there an explosion?” I ask.

“Yeah, baby, there was,” Tristan says sadly.

Hendrix moves to the window and pulls the curtains to allow the waxing gibbous moon’s light into the room. He doesn’t turn around, just stands there, a silhouette of despondency as he peers out into the night.

Night, not morning. How much time has passed?

“Fucking Irish blew up my goddamn house.”

What?

“Those fucking Irish are the reason we’re still alive. And you hated that house,” Tristan replies.

That’swhat the explosion was? His house? Dear God. All the people. His parents. The staff I saw in the kitchen. “Was anyone hurt?”

Hendrix shrugs a shoulder, and my brow furrows at his casual brushoff about people’s lives like they aren’t important.

I carefully slide off Constantine’s lap and back up a step. My legs shake with the exertion of keeping me upright, and I’m reminded of the bruises and injuries I also carry. The adrenaline is wearing off, and every ache and pain is making itself known.

“Was anyone hurt?” I repeat and back up another step as the walls start to close in on me.

Constantine stands up, and it kills me to do it because I’m so fucking ecstatic that he’s alive, but I hold my hand out in front of me to stop his advance.

“Yes.”

“Who?”

Tristan slides his legs over the side of the bed. “We’ll talk about it later. Let’s just make sure you’re okay first.”

I’m about to insist that I’m fine when a recognizable sour, metallic smell hits me, and I look down at myself. At the dried blood that covers my clothes and skin. I’m a nightmare matted in gore and destruction. A nightmare that I never wanted to remember. Was it me? Did I kill them just like the words I wrote in my journal?

I don’t want to be her. I don’t want to hurt people.

I’m not here.

I’m not here.

I’m not here.

I am no one.

“Aoife, baby, please,” Tristan implores when I start to fracture apart.

My fingers fist in my hair at my scalp, and I scream, “Don’t call me that!”

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