Chapter 35 #2
The thought crashes into me so hard I nearly recoil, but I don’t, embracing it instead by looking at him. Really looking at him.
I haven’t seen Hatter without his mask, not sober anyway. Last night was more dream than memory, something I recall distinctly but keep questioning the reality of. Maskless and in the cold light of the moon, I see him better than I think I ever have.
His backward ball cap covers his black hair. His jaw is strong beneath a few days of dark stubble, small scars peppering the right side. A silver pointed stud pierces his right brow over deep-set eyes the color of the ocean at night.
He’s actually not wearing a shirt, I realize.
No, he’s covered in tattoos, just like the ones lining his right brow.
I thought I’d made up the beautiful roses, the curving vines and thorns winding all over his chest, brow, and left arm last night, but I was right.
Hatter is a portrait of two parts, gorgeous roses cover most of his body, tragic scars cover the rest. Every inch of his chest and left arm is inked, but his right…
Moonlight catches the glossy scars covering his right forearm, where a dark spot that looks like it could’ve once been a birthmark now looks like a melted, macabre skull. I’ve seen scarring like that before, on Luna and Nox’s father from when he was tortured as a child…
Who hurt you, Hatter?
But there’s one section of his right biceps that isn’t scarred. It’s inked instead, tattooed deliberately into the shape of…
A handprint.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Lucy. I swear to God. I just want to talk.”
His hands slowly rise again, and I flinch. I don’t think he’ll hurt me, but I have no idea what I’ll do if he touches me.
“Fuck, Lucy, please.” The pain in his voice tears at my chest. “It’s just me. It’s—” He stops, then swallows. “It’s Hatter.”
He says the last like he’s not sure if that nickname is enough.
I know I should be afraid. He looked like a monster back in that bungalow, didn’t he? That’s what cold-blooded murderers are. A fearsome, deadly thing. A man who doesn’t just defend, he destroys.
But when I look at him now, standing in the moonlight with his hands in surrender and his face open, all I see is someone who looks absolutely destroyed.
“Say something, please,” he begs, the words thick and guttural.
I swallow. When I speak, my voice comes out hoarse and slow.
“You killed him.”
“I’m sorry, Lucy.” He blows out a breath.
“Sorry for killing him?” I ask, trying to ignore the ruthless twinge in my chest.
“No.” His jaw tics. “I’m sorry you—” he exhales again. “Lucy, I need you to be honest with me. How much did you see?”
“Why? If you don’t like the answer, will you kill me too?”
“What? No—” He jolts back. “Fuck, of course not. But… how much did you see goddammit? How much did you hear?”
I lick my lips. “The first thing I heard was Frog asking you to untie him.”
Relief sags his shoulders. But then his mouth twists.
“So you saw me kill him, and you ran.” He closes his eyes. “You weren’t supposed to see that. Fuck.” His jaw clenches. “But Lucy, he… He’s the one that hurt you when you were a kid. You thought you killed him, but he made it out alive somehow.”
I wince, and Hatter curses, quickly continuing, “The moment they put you in that room, Castle and his lackey were dead men. But before that, I had to find out why they did it. That’s what I found out.”
He shakes his head and looks at me with pleading eyes. “I never wanted you to see that side of me.”
The claim starts off insistent, but by the end, it sounds more like a question with a curious tilt of his head.
He stops, and his expression shifts. His eyes narrow as his gaze roams over my body—over the way my nipples have hardened under my wet shirt, and I’m trembling with something that has nothing to do with the cold, how my chest rises and falls way too fast for someone who’s stopped running.
He’s reading me with the same terrifying precision he’s used since the night I crawled to him onstage, and whatever he finds makes him go very, very still.
Because he sees it. The thing I’ve kept hidden from everyone, including myself.
How good it felt to drive a needle into that man’s flesh even at seven years old.
How freeing it had been to watch him convulse.
How thrilling it was to see it happen again, to see the retribution I’ve craved my whole life, delivered by the man right in front of me
Hatter brought me justice.
And… and…
He sucks in a breath. “Jesus Christ.”
His voice drops an octave. His hands lower. The heat rolling off him now isn’t just from the run. It’s something more primal, instinctive. Passion and restraint and darkness that all make my lower belly twist in response.
“You’re not afraid I’m a killer.”
His gaze eyes over me, and I feel naked and throbbing under it. My pulse stutters as his gaze returns to my face, and I feel everywhere it’s been.
“No,” he says slowly. “You’re not afraid at all, are you, bunny.” It isn’t a question. “Confused maybe.” He shakes his head. “But not afraid.”
I back up until the damp support beam stops me. Hatter steps closer, close enough that his driftwood, bonfire scent reaches me. The truth opens beneath my feet like a trapdoor, one I want to fall through, let myself tumble down, down, down knowing that Hatter will catch me at the bottom.
“It turns you on that I killed for you.”
Heat flashes through me, and he bites his lip as my inner muscles clench so suddenly I nearly gasp.
“No,” I say. “Of course not.”
But even I don’t believe me.
He tsks. “Ain’t no use lying, bunny.” He steps closer, “When the moon hits you just right, I can tell your pupils are blown. You’re clenching your thighs together.”
I force myself to relax them, but I just trip instead.
“And you keep staring at my mouth.” The corner of his lips curves, and I jerk my gaze upward. “Why, Lucy? Do you want me to kiss you? Or do you want me to use them for something else?”
He keeps his gaze on me like a man who’s already won and is just waiting for the proceedings to finish.
The air between us pulls taut. Everything inside me winds up, primed. His heartbeat and mine are almost audible together in the space beneath the pier.
“There’s no denying it,” he says softly. “It turns you on that I killed… for you.”
I shake my head, but there’s no force in it. Only instinct, the last reflex of a girl who’s been lying to herself for years and has just been caught dead to rights.
He leans in and murmurs against the shell of my ear. “You’ve always had to be the one who ran. The one who got away. The one who saved herself.”
My breath falters as my chest fractures open.
His voice softens. “And tonight, you didn’t have to.”
Tears prickle behind my eyes before I even feel the urge to cry. But it’s not grief or pain. It’s so much more confusing than that, more complicated and frightening.
Because I should hate what I saw. I should be disgusted and horrified and halfway to the mainland by now and never want to come back.
But all I want is him.
His shadow cuts through the moonlight. He’s kept distance between us, and I can’t tell anymore if that’s because he’s afraid I’ll run or because he wants to catch me.
Finally he steps forward.
“I didn’t plan on any of this. I just needed…” His voice is rough as he takes my hands before I can stop him. His thumbs press over my knuckles, then his eyes drop. “I just needed to keep you safe, and… wait, what’s this?”