17. Christian
CHRISTIAN
I f someone had asked me five years ago where I saw myself in this very moment, it wouldn’t have been stalking into a desolate greenhouse to shoot a dog that bit the girl who shot me.
It also wouldn’t have included the burn in my chest from the tears in her eyes.
Who the fuck does she think she is? What happened to me? As if I’m some damaged replica of the man she used to know. The man she shot.
Like she’s some fucked-up little Mother Theresa, running around and rescuing whatever she can. I don’t need her rescuing. My soul was damned a long fucking time ago.
The man she knew is dead. She killed him when she fired that bullet in my chest.
It takes a monster to kill a monster, and that’s exactly what I’ve become, regardless of what little Mila Carpenter has to say about it.
I shove past Mila, ignoring the lead filling my chest from a few simple tears, and make my way toward the old, broken greenhouse. When I enter, I shut the door behind me, and a growl sounds from somewhere nearby.
“Fuck off, dog,” I murmur under my breath, only to turn around and find the dog in question isn’t even a dog. It’s a wolf. Or a mix of one.
His fur is black, a strange white coloring around his eyes. There’s no doubt he’s hurt by his inability to move right when he stands.
“I swear that woman and her soft fucking heart,” I growl under my breath when the dog attempts to take a step towards me, only to fall back to his stomach with a whimper.
I run my thumb over the grooves in the grip of my pistol, staring at him as he stares at me. Both of us probably thinking about the same fucking girl.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I grumble under my breath, scrubbing a hand over my face. Consequently, some of Mila’s blood is still on my cheek.
It’s obvious the dog needs help, and guilt washes through me, but I know part of that is just the girl I left crying in the center of the clearing. The need to go to her pulls at me like a magnet, and I hate the fucking feeling. She gets under my skin and makes me question myself and why I am the way I am. Makes me want to dry her tears, even if I’m the one that caused them.
“Let’s get something straight,” I murmur, dropping to my haunches in front of the mutt. He cocks his head to the side, his brown eyes boring into mine as if he understands what he did. “You bite my girl again; no amount of her tears will save you.”
He lays his head down on the old quilt I’d stripped off the bed inside when we arrived, looking up at me through soft brown eyes.
I shake my head, standing.
“That was your only strike,” I reiterate. And then I head to the door.
As expected, Mila’s in the same place I left her when I exit the greenhouse.
What’s not expected is the hot and unpleasant feeling that slides down my throat when I see her sitting there dejected, like she has nothing left in the world.
I don’t like it.
No . . . scratch that.
I fucking hate it.
I wish I would have just used it on myself . . .
She doesn’t look up at me when I approach, and I don’t say a word, silently bending down, lifting her into my arms, and carrying her back toward the cottage.
“Did you do it?” she asks softly. Something dark settles in my chest, where she lays her head, her eyes closed against the tears clinging to her lashes.
“I didn’t shoot him.”
She lets out a shaky breath, drawing her bottom lip between her teeth despite the cut from her chewing on her lip.
Ever wanted to feel like the world’s biggest douchebag?
Take a walk in my shoes when Mila Carpenter’s around.
I carry her through the front door and straight to the kitchen table. She doesn’t look up when I sit her down in a chair, tug her coat off her arms, and cross the room to get the first aid kit from the bathroom.
All but a week here, and I’ve had to use the fucking thing on her twice.
“It’s just a scratch,” Mila mumbles when I return to the table.
It’s not, but I let her think that.
I grab a rag and wet it with cool water, crossing back to her at the table. I tug a chair up beside her and pull her between my legs, my knees on either side of hers.
I reach for her hand against her chest, but she refuses to give it to me.
“Let me see.”
“I don’t want to.”
I swear to fucking God.
“Mila. Let me see,” I try again, gentler this time, when I really just feel like breaking something.
She swallows past the lump in her throat and finally relents, slowly holding her hand out to me, dripping in blood. I take her delicate fingers in mine, turning her hand to the light and she shuts her eyes, looking away.
“You don’t like blood, now.”
It’s not a question.
“Blood is blood,” she replies cooly, a shiver moving through her. “It’s how it gets to the surface that bothers me.”
Something about that pisses me off.
“If we’re going to coexist together on this island, I need you to be honest with me,” I tell her, wiping the blood from her fingers. Her wrist isn’t bleeding anymore, but she will need stitches on at least one of the gashes.
She’s silent, staring at the table beside us instead of at her hand.
“I was . . . afraid you’d hurt him.”
Fuck.
She looks away, her cheeks red and swollen from the tears still fresh on her face, and I’ll admit, the sight of them makes me want to burn the world to the ground.
“I overreacted,” I murmur, pouring peroxide over the cut. She winces and bites her bottom lip. The words taste like battery acid on the back of my tongue. Admitting you fucked up always does. “I’m sorry.”
She pauses, her brow furrowing.
“Did you just apologize?”
Little brat.
I pull out the needle and thread from the kit, threading it through and aligning myself to place a couple stiches.
“This will hurt,” I tell her, and she finally meets my gaze with her pretty gray one.
“Okay,” she breathes.
I’ve given stitches to myself and others so many times I’ve lost count. The sight of blood has never bothered me. Especially not after seeing bullet wounds, people getting stabbed. Murders.
The sight of blood on Mila’s soft skin, though, is something else entirely.
I push the needle through the torn flesh, and Mila lets out a soft breath through parted lips. I don’t look up at her, keeping my hold steady and place the first stitch.
“I’m sorry, too . . .” Mila says after a beat, and the urge to tug her into my lap just to fucking hold her burns in my chest.
I can’t, though. I fucking can’t because that option was taken from us.
When I place the third and final stitch, neither of us moves for a moment, save for me cleaning the blood from her wounds.
“Where did you learn to give stitches?” Mila asks quietly, watching me clean the drying blood from her skin with the rag. The rest of the wounds aren’t as deep and have already started healing.
“My mother,” I reply, voice huskier than before. “She was a nurse.”
“You’ve never spoken about your mother to me before.”
I grit my teeth, wrapping her hand in a layer of gauze to keep the stitches from getting caught.
“You never asked.”
She’s silent for a moment, nibbling on her bottom lip. If I could touch her, I’d pull it away from her with my own and then wipe the worry off her face with a brush of my tongue.
Because I can’t, though, I’m forced to watch her worry herself to death.
“She died,” I murmur. I don’t know why the fuck I’m telling her this. I don’t speak about my mother with anyone. Something forces me to, though, and I’m betting it’s the little voice in the back of my head that always says stupid shit when Mila’s around.
“I’m sorry,” she breathes, her hand brushing against mine where a scar runs through an ace of spades on my wrist. “I guess we’re more alike than we thought.”
Her father. He died before she was old enough to remember him, yet I know that’s not why she’s sad. She’s sad for me. And I don’t deserve it.
Gently as I can, I reach up, capturing a drying tear on her cheek with my thumb. Her eyes widen for a moment, but for the first time since I brought her here, she doesn’t shrink away from me.
Instead, she leans closer, her breathing heavier, and her eyes soften to a look that both hits me right in the fucking chest and aches in my cock at the same time.
“What do you want, Mila?” I ask, my voice quiet. Barely audible over my own breathing mixed with hers.
“I want . . .” she pauses, her eyes half-lidded and hazy in the dim light overhead. My dick pulses in my jeans when her tongue darts out to lick her lips, my mind running through every possible scenario of how this could end, but knowing none of them end with her in my arms again.
That ship hasn’t just sailed, it’s fucking sunk.
But . . . with her pretty gray eyes filled with something warm and thick, our breathing heavy in the air between us, and her soft hand in mine, it’s easy to forget.
Her fingers close around mine and her breath hitches when mine dance across her knee. She doesn’t push me away, and for the first time since I brought her here, there’s no panic in her gaze at the touch of another person.
“I want you to keep touching me,” she whispers, almost like it’s a question.
I tug her towards me until she’s inches away, and her breath catches, her eyes widening with a split second of fear before it’s replaced with something else.
We’ve been tiptoeing around each other on this island, and it’s getting to my head.
Her lips hover over mine, and the scent of her honey and vanilla washes over me, stealing my breath and making my cock throb in my jeans.
It’s that split second of fear, though, and the uncertainty in her gaze that prevents me from moving further.
Finally, I force myself to release her. Then, I force myself to ignore the dull ache in my chest and stand from my chair.
Fuck, I force myself not to think about the fact that while she may have blood on her hands, mine are too dirty to even touch her.
She doesn’t belong in my world any more than I belong in hers, yet . . . I can’t say the idea isn’t fucking tempting, nor that the thought of her disappearing again doesn’t make something dark and twisted growl in the back of my head.
“Go get cleaned up,” I murmur, standing from the chair before I can do something stupid. I head towards the door, gritting my teeth at the bitterness burning through my veins. “I’ll get the dog.”
She doesn’t respond, and I don’t look back, walking out into the night to go get a fucking wolf and bring him inside just so I can see her smile.
Mila doesn’t ask when I place him on a blanket near the fireplace, but I don’t miss the soft smile on her face when she turns away.
And that’s when I know I’d do anything to see it again.
Things go quiet online in the days that follow me stitching Mila’s hand. There are no signs of anyone actively looking for her, which means they’re hiding it, and I need to find out why.
Luckily, the weather keeps anyone from coming to the island for a few days, with the waves crashing over the path.
This also means that it’s just me and her stuck in the cottage with a wolf who looks at me like he wants to bite my dick off any time I come near her.
Mila dotes on the dog, naming him Phantom for the marks on his face and because, in her words, Christine should have chosen the Phantom.
Whatever the fuck that means.
It’s on our third day that tensions run high. I’m making lunch when Mila drops her hairbrush for the fourth time in the bathroom, letting out a string of expletives under her breath that would make even the most hardened criminals blush.
I can’t help but chuckle, turning the burner off to the stove and crossing over to the bathroom.
“Let me try.”
She glares at me in the mirror, tears shining in her eyes, but concedes, grabbing her hairbrush and handing it to me.
I step out into the living room, sinking into the couch and motioning for her to sit in front of me.
We haven’t touched each other since the other night, so she’s hesitant, wrapping her arms around her middle and stepping over in between my legs. I toss a pillow to the floor and motion for her to sit.
Carefully, she sinks down, pressing her back to the couch between my knees and drawing her legs up to her chest.
I brush her hair, smoothing the strands still wet from her shower while the wind howls outside the window, and begin to braid it.
“Did your mother teach you how to braid?” she asks softly, watching the fire crackle and pop in front of her.
“Learned for my sister,” I murmur without even thinking.
She’s quiet for a moment, processing what I’d said.
“How old is your sister?”
“Twenty-five,” I reply dryly, smoothing the soft strands of her hair down with my fingers. “Paulina couldn’t braid, and I knew someone had to learn to do it.”
“Are you related to June—I mean, Paulina?”
“My aunt,” I reply. “She moved in to help take care of us. Dad wasn’t around. Always working.”
“It’s nice that she was there after your mother . . .”
“Died?”
Mila’s silent.
“I was a handful,” I murmur. “Pretty reckless.”
She opens her mouth to speak. Probably to tell me that it wasn’t my fault, but she doesn’t.
“Did she ever have any children of her own?”
“No. As far as I know, she never wanted any and never married. She semi-adopted us to help our dad out, but I don’t think she ever planned on taking care of her sister’s kids.”
“I can’t believe everything she told me was a lie.” She shakes her head.
“Not all of it.”
She pauses, turning over her shoulder to face me.
“You were there?”
“Reading the paper in the back.”
She gawks at me.
“How long were you planning on kidnapping me, then?”
I push her to face forward and resume braiding.
“Since the moment you left, though . . . I must admit, I didn’t think it would take that long.”
“Good,” she huffs. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice you.”
“No, but you never did, did you?” I smirk because I feel her stiffen in front of me. “You were never alone, Mila. I was always there.”
She shakes her head, hugging her knees tighter.
“I’m sure my mother sent you. Did it ever occur to you that maybe I wanted to be alone?”
“Your mother had nothing to do with it, Mila.”
She falls silent, watching the flames in front of her while I work on her hair.
“I always thought I’d adopt,” she says quietly after a while.
It’s the first time I’m hearing it.
“You never told me that,” I murmur, repeating the words she’d said to me the other night, and she shrugs.
“You never asked.”
We fall silent, me braiding and her watching the fire.
“Why should Christine have chosen the Phantom?”
“What?” she asks softly.
“You said Christine should have chosen the Phantom. Why?”
A shiver runs down her spine when I brush over the top of the scar that peaks out from under the collar of my T-shirt she’s wearing.
Scars I haven’t been able to get out of the back of my mind since that first night I bathed her.
“The Phantom was dedicated,” she whispers as if saying such a thing is treason. “He was obsessed with her, yes, but he knew the parts of her soul that no one else did. The pain of losing her father. The loneliness of her childhood.”
“He murdered a fair few people if I remember correctly,” I point out.
“He did,” she concedes softly. “He also loves the dark, ugly parts of her. Raoul loved the idea of her, based on an image he created in his head. Not the real her. The real Christine is much more complex than he can imagine.”
I finish her braid, tying it off at the end and smoothing it down her back.
“So you’re saying love transcends violence?” I ask when she stands, lightly running her hand over the braid.
“I’m saying even villains need to be loved,” she whispers. She meets my eyes, her cheeks glowing red before she looks away. “And sometimes a dark soul doesn’t mean a dark heart.”