Page 52 of Marry Lies
I’m not as confident as my other brothers, even if I want people to think I am.
It’s why I keep my scars covered—because it’s easier to step into the role I’ve created if people don’t stare at the one thing I can’t stand about myself.
Despite that, though…Estelleisstarting to affect me. Slowly—like smelling a wildfire from far off. Little hints of a scent at first. Not enough to make you pause. Nothing to worry about. But the closer it gets, the more it begins to permeate my senses. And like a wildfire, it burns slowly at first. Small embers catching on a nearby tree, which lead to more embers, more flames.
Until it’s too late, and you’re engulfed in flames you never saw coming.
I don’t give myself easily—to anyone. I’ve never been in love. I never saw myself in a serious relationship, and until a few months ago, I sure as hell never saw myself getting married. It only became an option recently, and only to smooth over the defective Ravage reputation.
Why would I have ever considered marriage outside of those terms? Who could love me when I’m defective? A workaholic. Scheming, lying, and probably a little bit corrupt. Quiet.Scarred.
Cautious.
I am cautious.
Estelle looks up at me with wide eyes, as if she can read my mind.
“Well, I suppose we should head back,” she says quietly, giving me a soft smile.
I nod once. “Sure. I have to get to work anyway.”
She crosses her arms. “I swear to God, if you even think about pranking me with that goat—”
“His name is Lucifer. You’re going to have to befriend him at some point, you know.”
“Why?” she asks, her voice incredulous.
“Because what’s mine is yours,” I concede.
“Really?”
She looks like she wants to say something, but she must change her mind because she doesn’t respond.
I don’t say anything as we start our trek back because I know what she’s thinking.
What’s mine is yours…except when it comes to my secrets.
“Now that I know he’s here, I’m not going to be able to sleep,” she adds.
I chuckle. “Why goats? He’s apygmygoat. He weighs like twenty pounds.”
“I don’t know. When I was little, my grandmother would put on the television to distract me while she went out onto her patio to smoke. One time, there was this weird French children’s show with an evil cartoon goat.” Shrugging, she smiles. “I guess it had an effect on me.”
I laugh again. “I promise Lucifer is not evil.”
“Why did you name him Lucifer?”
“His eyes turn red when it’s dark.”
She stops walking and stares at me with horror.
I can’t help but laugh. “Fuck, you’re gullible.”
“You’re a bastard,” she mutters, marching ahead of me and pushing the back door open.
I follow her into the kitchen. “I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry.”
She walks over to the kettle, and flips it on, turning around as she leans her hip against the counter.
