Chapter Thirty-Three #2
I see it descending upon me, and then, suddenly, I can breathe.
I don’t feel my father’s hands around my throat.
I don’t feel his heavy, smelly body crushing my lungs.
I don’t know if it’s a dream or if it’s really happening.
But I see my father being thrown across the room, grunting and groaning as he falls to the floor.
Then, the man in that mask is straddling my father’s body and punching him over and over.
He keeps smashing his face into the floor, and no matter what my father does, he can’t get him off.
No matter what my father does, he can’t fight back, and soon he goes limp, just like that man in the cabin a couple of weeks ago.
I don’t know how I do it, but somehow, I prop myself up on my trembling elbow and call out as loudly as I can, “Arsen, no. Please. Don’t k-kill him. He’s not…” I cough and struggle to get the words out, to stay propped up even. “He’s not w-worth it. Not for me.”
And then I go back down. The last thing I remember seeing is the man in the mask—Arsen, the love of my life, my husband—getting off my father’s limp body and heading toward me.
It wasn’t a dream.
That’s my first thought as I come to. Immediately followed by: I know this room.
I’d know it anywhere, even though I only spent one night in it.
This is where I started when I came here for the first time.
In his room at the Grayson ranch. I also know I’m not alone.
There’s someone else in the room with me.
Someone who smells like the outdoors and tastes like lemonade.
Somehow, I’m more afraid to open my eyes than I was when I was stuck with my daddy. Or the man I thought was my daddy. Probably because I’m so eager to open them now and look at him when I should pace myself. I should err on the side of caution. This is the man I love who doesn’t love me back.
A broken heart is a lot more painful than broken bones.
So I take my time and slowly blink my eyes open.
While it took my father some time to realize I was awake, it isn’t the case here.
He already knew I was awake before I even opened my eyes because his own are locked on me and he’s sitting at the edge of his seat, every line on his face, every muscle in his body tight and on edge.
The moment our eyes meet, I see him go even more on edge, sliding down the chair, fisting his hands on his thighs, the frown on his face deepening.
I try to get up then and realize it’s difficult.
My elbows are shaking, and there’s a distinct soreness in my spine and in my chest. My head too.
But when I see him springing up from his seat to come help me, I have no choice but to thrust my hand out, asking him to stop so I can push myself up to sitting on my own, without his help.
I don’t want him touching me.
He comes to an abrupt halt at my gesture, and I notice how his body strains with the effort. Like he has to physically stop himself from dashing over to me.
I lick my dry lips and ask, “Did you…”
I have to trail off because there’s a sharp pain in my throat as I try to speak. Probably because my father tried to choke me to death. Tears threaten my eyes then, but I somehow hold them at bay.
Although it becomes really difficult to do that when, suddenly, a glass of water appears in front of me and I hear him say, “You’re gonna have some soreness around your throat for a while.
The doctor gave you a pain medication for that.
” His jaw clenches for a second before he adds, “And for other injuries.”
I take the glass of water from him and take a sip.
Even that is difficult. But water helps.
At least my throat doesn’t feel on fire like it did a second ago.
Besides, I’ve seen and suffered worse than this.
My father never tried to kill me before, but he did once dislocate my shoulder.
Something I’d forgotten about up until now; so if I survived that, I guess I’ll survive this too.
Although from the looks of it, Arsen might not.
Because after giving me the glass of water, he simply stands there, looking down at me, his hands fisted, his spine so straight that it must be painful, and his legs shoulder width apart. As if he’s ready to go into battle and is just waiting for a sign from me.
Not to mention, his face. I’ve been trying not to study it too closely, but I can see how tired it looks.
There are more lines around his eyes and his mouth than there were this morning.
And his eyes are red-rimmed and look sunken.
Plus, his clothes, his hair, even his boots, everything looks messy and wrinkled, like they’ve been through a wringer.
Well, he did come to save me—God, for the thousandth time—so maybe he did go through the wringer, but still.
Most of all, though, he looks… lost.
Like he’s determined to do something but doesn’t know what that something is. So I help him out.
“Can you…” I have to massage my throat a bit, and he looks ready to lose his shit with how harshly he starts to breathe. So I swallow very gently and whisper, “Can you sit down? Please? You’re… freaking me… out.”
His brow wrinkles more, but he immediately obeys. Like a wooden puppet he drops down onto the chair, his jaw pulsing rhythmically. God, why does he have to look so tortured right now? All miserable and awkward.
Agonized.
I lick my lips again and ask, “Did you… kill him?”
I don’t have to elaborate on who he is, because a violent expression passes through his face before he breathes out as if to calm himself. “No.”
I breathe out, too, but mine is a breath of relief. “Thank you.”
It only manages to make him angry. “He doesn’t—”
“How did you… find me?” I ask, cutting him off.
Because I already know where he stands on this killing business. I already know he’s hell-bent on revenge and righting all the wrongs, and he can do that. He can avenge this whole fucking world. As long as he doesn’t do it for me, I’ll make my peace with it.
The muscle on his cheek pulses for a few seconds before he replies, “Peyton. She gave us a list of possible places to look on the ranch. We combed through a couple before…” He has to pause to breathe in and out again. “I decided we needed to look elsewhere.”
“My old house,” I guess.
He gives me a curt nod.
I tighten my fingers around the glass as I ask, “You said we.”
“Rad and I.”
I swallow gently again before whispering, “You shouldn’t have… done that. You shouldn’t have come.”
His nostrils flare then. And his chest swells up like a wave. But even his breathing exercises—and they seem to be that, strangely—don’t calm him down, and his voice comes out a growl: “I should have.”
“You’re on parole,” I remind him.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“You—”
“I wore a mask.”
“The same one you wore that night.”
“Doesn’t fuckin’ matter.”
“Do you think… they won’t put two and two together? If they haven’t already, that is. You could go back to jail. You could—”
“Do you think I’d sit on my fuckin’ ass,” he thunders then, his spine snapping straight, his eyes shooting fire, “while they took my wife from me? While they took her away from her bed, from her goddamn home. Do you think I’d worry about my motherfuckin’ parole, while you were in danger.
While you were put in danger because of me.
While you were back in that nightmare of a ranch where your father beat on you.
While you lay on the floor with his hands… ”
Instead of saying it, he breathes in and out. He visibly takes in a breath and then lets it out. He even grips his knees and sits straight as if doing a meditation exercise. Which is when I notice something. A bandage wrapped around his right palm.
“What… What is that?” I ask, motioning to his hand.
He doesn’t look away from me as he responds, “Cut myself.”
I open my mouth to ask him how. I mean, both of his hands look messed up, for sure. His knuckles are swollen and scraped, his skin red and bruised. But that’s because of the beating he delivered to my father. This bandage thing looks different.
I shake it off, though. It’s none of my business anymore, what happens to him. Instead, I put him at ease. Even though things aren’t good between us, I still don’t want him to suffer and blame himself for what I essentially did to myself.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, holding the glass with both hands.
“I know you have a habit of taking… blame for things but…” I swallow, drink a sip of water because it’s becoming hard to talk once again.
“I baited him. He wouldn’t have attacked if I hadn’t…
So it’s not your fault that I lay on the floor with his hands… ”
I don’t say it, either, because it felt like he was going to explode if I said the words “around my neck.” So I let it go and just let it lie as I continue, “They’ll know you took me back and attacked my father. Brecken is not stupid. He’ll—”
“Again, don’t fuckin’ matter.”
I lean forward then, even though my body is sore and aching and I just want to lie down. “What’s going to happen to your revenge when you’re behind bars?”
He opens his mouth but then closes it and breathes deep. Then, with a gravelly voice, he says, “It’s not important right now so I want you to fuckin’ drop it.”
You know what, he’s right. It’s none of my business anymore.
He can do whatever he wants. It’s not as if he’ll listen to me, right?
He never has and he never will. I guess I should be thankful that he rescued me once again and leave it at that.
Besides, it’s not as if he’s had a change of heart about the whole revenge thing.
He’s made it clear that nothing will stop him, not my useless confession of love.
Not what I found in that file about Annie even.
“He’s not my father,” I blurt out, my fingers so tight around the glass that I might break it with bare hands.
“What?”