22. Mila
MILA
M ila, get the fuck down from there!”
I shiver as the wind whips my hair into my face, looking down over the edge of the hospital building.
My mother swore she wouldn’t bring me back here. She swore and then she did it anyway.
Now they’re here.
It would be so easy to jump. So easy to let this all end so no one else has to get hurt.
Why doesn’t he understand that? That my presence is only causing more pain?
I hate him. I hate him for making me love him. I hate him for lying to me about who he was. I hate that after everything he’s done, his leaving, his aiding the enemy, there’s still a massive hole in my heart where he should be.
Most of all . . . I hate that I still love him despite all of that.
“Why can’t you leave me alone?” Guilt washes through me, this feeling of loneliness gnawing at my insides until I feel like I’ll bleed to death from the inside out.
I swallow over the pain in my throat, my heartbeat racing in my chest. My head spins, the edge fading in and out of existence, and I take a step to the side to steady myself.
It would be so easy . . .
“Mila,” Christian grits, his voice filled with anger. I turn around, and his eyes look to the ledge, then they meet mine, and there’s nothing but hatred in that gaze that used to look at me like I was the only girl in the world.
“Let me go . . . please?”
“Mila, you jump off that roof, you’re killing us both. Remember that.”
He doesn’t understand. They’re coming back, and when they do, it won’t be me they’ll hurt.
I almost laugh. Why does it always have to be death?
Chaos swallows us both the moment the wind batters against my side, and I stumble, my sneaker slipping on the damp metal. Christian lunges forward, catching me around the waist, and we both topple to the ground below the ledge, a grunt forcing its way out of him and my breath being crushed from my lungs when he catches me on the concrete of the rooftop.
No, I have to do this.
I struggle in his arms, fighting with everything I have, but he’s so much bigger than me. So strong, where I’m weak after weeks of toeing the line between life and death. I thrash against him, and he struggles to gain control, pinning me against his chest.
“Let me go!”
“Goddamnit, stop it!”
It’s when a deafening pop sounds through the air that both of us freeze.
“What the—”
I look down to where a dark spot is appearing in the front of his gray T-shirt, my entire body filling with ice.
No.
No, no, no, no.
“You shot me?”
I shake my head, the words getting stuck in my throat as the pain erupts in my chest. I look down at the pistol in my hand.
Did I shoot him?
Horror washes over me, my eyes filling with tears.
How did I do that? How could I do that? I shot him. I shot Christian.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, the gun falling to the rooftop in a pool of his blood leaking from the wound. My head spins, my stomach filled with dread.
How could I shoot him?
“I’m so sorry.”
“Mila—”
“Shh . . .” I breathe, my hands roaming over him as a shiver wracks through him.
How could I shoot him?
How did I do that?
Ripping the jacket off my shoulders, I grab his hand. They’ll be coming soon, and I can’t let them find me. He won’t let me go, and my being here only brings more pain.
I place the jacket over his wound and force his hand to hold it there; the pain, unlike anything I’ve ever felt when a tremor moves through him. A sob wracks through me, my tears mixing with the light rain falling from above.
His phone hasn’t stopped ringing since he followed me up here and finally, I reach over and pull it out of his pocket, my brother’s name lighting up the screen. I answer it, placing it to my ear.
“He’s on the roof.”
Christian’s face is pale. His skin slick with perspiration.
Panic swells in my chest with the knowledge that this may be the last time I ever see him.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, and he stares up at me, his eyes fluttering over thick lashes. Steeling myself, I bend down, pressing one soft kiss to his lips. “I love you.”
He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Just the decrepit gargle of death as his eyes glass over.
I killed him.
I killed him.
“NO!”
I batter at his chest with my hands, desperation clinging to every one of my senses.
This is a mistake. I couldn’t have killed him. He can’t be dead.
“What are you crying for?”
I shake my head at the evil, awful voice.
It’s not real.
“You did this. Look at me.”
I keep my eyes clenched tightly. Refusing to open them.
I didn’t do this.
“Look. At. Me.”
Sitting straight up on the couch, a scream of fear rips its way from my throat. I fight at the hold of the hands reaching for me, panic slipping through my veins like venom.
“Mila.”
Strong arms hold me against a warm chest, a hand coming up under my chin to force my eyes to look up into two deep blue ones.
“You’re here.”
Leather, whiskey, and the forest fill my senses, a sense of calm washing over me like a bucket of ice water.
He’s not dead.
My hands shake as they roam over him, but there’s no blood.
A dream. It was another fucking dream.
Angrily, I shove away from Christian, rising from the couch. It’s the middle of the day and I’m stuck in my own brain. The nightmare still clings to the edges of my mind, burrowing it’s way in deeper until I can’t escape.
“I need a drink,” I grumble, storming towards the stairs.
“ Mila. ”
Christian’s footsteps are heavy on the staircase behind me, but I don’t stop. I’m in no mood to explain what that dream was about, nor do I want to think about it.
Crossing the living room, I head straight to the liquor cabinet hanging on the wall and pull out his precious bottle of whiskey, popping the cork off and putting the bottle to my lips for a drink.
Only it’s ripped away before I ever get the chance.
“Stop,” I grit, whirling on Christian only to find him shoving the cork back in the bottle and placing it back in the cabinet.
“What we’re not going to do is drink.”
“Why? Men do it all the time.”
“Drinking won’t solve your problems.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I can do bad, all on my own. I don’t need you to feel sorry for me.”
“Good. I don’t.”
“That’s nice, Christian. You know, maybe you should go into counseling. You have a stellar approach,” I mutter dryly, tears welling in my eyes as I stomp towards the bathroom.
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t want to do this right now.”
“Mila, get the fuck back here.”
“Or what?” I challenge, spinning back to him so fast, my hair whips me in the face.
“This is what you want to do? Relive the same fucking night over and over, or do you want to move past it?”
“Stop!”
“No,” he argues back, his voice raising over mine. “You want to wallow in your self-pity, or are you going to do something about it?”
“I don’t want to do any of it anymore!”
My chest heaves with the force behind my words. My ears ring in the silence, my throat sore and tight.
“I am so sick and fucking tired of everyone thinking I’m wallowing in self-pity.” I scrub a hand over my face, refusing to look at him. If I look at him, I know I’ll break.
A chuckle tears from my throat, but it lacks any real emotion.
“Do you know what it’s like to wake up alone in a hospital bed covered in your own blood?” He’s silent, and I can feel his eyes burning my skin. “To not know if you’re having your period or instead . . . thinking you’d never really made it out and everything you’d gone through the past few weeks was all just some bullshit dream meant to fuck you up before you die? Have you ever known what it’s like to lose something so precious and have to live with the guilt ? ”
I meet his gaze, and there’s not an ounce of emotion in it. Nothing but silence. I can tell by the look in his eyes he didn’t know.
Fuck, no one knew.
“To hear your own mother crying when she thinks you’re asleep to her boyfriend because you can’t even stand to be in the same room as her, let alone give her a hug. To have to look at your body in the mirror and hate yourself because all you can see is the reminder of what happened carved into your skin and know it’s your fault ?”
The silence is so loud it buzzes in the air around us.
“Because I do,” I breathe. A tear slips down my cheek, and I swipe it away. I won’t cry. I’ve spent weeks of my life crying.
“Not that it makes a difference to you,” I utter under my breath. Why am I telling him any of this? He’s already said he doesn’t care. The Christian in my dreams and the Christian right in front of me are two very different people. “I was just the easy one, right?”
Christian doesn’t say anything, his gaze trained on the wall behind my head. I keep waiting for whatever words of wisdom he thinks he has because that’s what everyone does. They say some bullshit line about how it’ll get better. How it’ll hurt a little less as time wears on, but none of them really know. They’re just trying to make themselves feel better by offering me a stick disguised as an olive branch.
“Get dressed,” he says after a long moment, and I just blink at him. I guess I was so lost in my own thoughts I’d almost forgotten he was there. He turns to me, and his gaze holds a look I can’t place. Something dark and teeming with anger but broken and savage at the same time. Before I can place it, it’s gone.
“What?”
“Get dressed. We’re going somewhere.”
“Where?” I ask, a sense of longing filling my chest at getting off the island.
“You’ll see.”
“What is this place?”
Christian pauses on the stairs when I don’t move from my place on the sidewalk. To be honest, the old brick building on the outskirts of Seattle looks abandoned from the outside, but he takes my hand in his, pulling me up the stairs anyway.
We haven’t spoken since we left the island an hour ago, and to be honest, being out in the open is terrifying, even if the neighborhood around us is calm and quiet.
“I have something to show you.”
“You sure you’re not leading me in here to murder me?” I taunt, but it lacks its usual enthusiasm after that hell storm that was my latest nightmare. I want to tell him about it, but . . . I also don’t. I want to move on and forget any of it ever happened, but I can’t.
Christian punches in another code to a big metal door and pulls it open, letting me slip inside.
Contrary to the outside, the inside is alive and bustling with activity. People mill about the long hallway of what looks like an old school, and chatter can be heard from the rooms on either side.
“What is this place?” I ask quietly as he leads me through the crowds. People stop to stare, mostly at him, in awe. It’s as if he’s a god, come down to grant wishes to the peasants.
“This, little devil,” he murmurs, pulling me closer to his side, his hand tightening around mine, “Was my work.”
My skin warms when he touches me. This feels . . . intimate. Too intimate, but I don’t pull away.
“Your work?” I cock a brow at him, confused, and he nods, stopping by a woman surrounded by people. She’s older, and you can tell she runs things by how everyone is crowded around her, asking her questions.
“Well, tomorrow, you’ve got the bathroom on the second floor,” she tells a young woman who groans. “Don’t think I won’t check.”
“Fine,” the woman huffs, then her eyes land on Christian.
I know that look.
. . . I don’t like that look.
She looks at him like he’s her hero, and I feel guilty for the bitter jealousy that creeps up on me.
“I didn’t think you’d show up here,” the woman says, pushing her hair back from her face.
She’s beautiful. Striking red hair and pretty freckles on her nose. Her brown eyes are soft and warm as if she knows him.
“Kelly . . . If that’s what you’re still going by,” Christian greets, giving her a nod. He doesn’t release my hand, even when I try to slip back. “This is my wife, Mila.”
What a liar .
I hold my hand out, but she doesn’t take it, so I let it fall awkwardly to my side.
“Nice to meet you, Mila,” she says, and I feel another pang of guilt for the disappointment in her voice. “And it’s Lindsay, actually,” she corrects Christian.
“Nice to see you’re sticking to your real name,” Christian says just as the busy woman finally turns to us.
“Haven’t seen you in a while.” Then, her gaze turns to me. “Special case?”
“My wife,” Christian lies. “Mila.”
I roll my eyes at his use of my wife and hold out my hand again. This woman shakes it, and I think it finally clicks for me what this place is.
“Finally. It’s about time,” she chuckles, offering me a soft smile. “She’s beautiful,” she tells Christian, who smirks. “Names Pat,” she explains. “This is my house, and these are my girls.”
“Pat runs the rehabilitation center,” Christian explains quietly in my ear. “Girls come here after they’re removed from whatever situation they were in, and she helps them get back on their feet.”
“This is your job?”
“Was,” Christian corrects. “Pat’s been here as long as I can remember.”
“She’ll just make you clean toilets,” Lindsay complains quietly.
“Speaking of,” Pat says, turning back to her. “Are your chores done?”
“No,” Lindsay grumbles, her cheeks darkening.
“Off you go.”
Lindsay disappears, muttering under her breath, while Pat shakes her head.
“First step to rejoining society is teaching them a strong work ethic. Can’t have them going out there and ending up right back where they started.”
“So, this is a place for people . . .” I start, but the words trail off.
“People who went through hell.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat, looking around. They’re all so . . . normal.
“Each of our girls was a victim of ST,” Pat explains. “We don’t like to say the word around here. It can be triggering for some.”
“Miss Pat,” a young voice says, and my heart flutters when I see the little girl who can’t be more than eight years old when she tugs on Pat’s hand.
“Why, yes, Miss Lily? What can I do for you?”
“Can you braid my hair?”
“I can’t braid,” Pat says. “I’m sorry. Never learned.”
“I know how,” I say, surprising even myself. There’s a brief moment of silence, and I know Pat’s going to shut it down, but before she can, Lily speaks up.
“Can you braid my hair, then?”
“What do we say?” Pat corrects her. “This is Mrs. C.”
“Please?”
I look back at Christian, who gives a subtle nod.
“I would love to.”
Lily squeals in delight, grabbing my hand and tugging me down the hall and into one of the classrooms. Christian hangs back, but I only have a brief glimpse of him watching me before she pulls me around the corner.
The classroom turned bedroom is what you’d expect out of a dormitory. Bunk beds line each of the walls, with the center of the room open with a table littered with crayons and coloring books. A couple girls sit, chatting while they draw, but Lily pays them no mind.
“This is my bed,” she says proudly, pulling me to the pink-covered bottom cot, the wall littered with pictures she’s drawn.
“It’s a very nice bed,” I concede when she pushes me to sit down on it. It’s not. It’s worn and used. There’s a spring sticking out of the mattress on the side, but it’s all she has, and that makes my throat swell.
She rifles through a little plastic trunk underneath before producing an old hairbrush that appears to be older than I am.
“Here. And you’ll need this.” She hands me a string of silk ribbon that matches her bedding. My heart stutters in my chest when I realize it’s a piece that tore.
I’m thankful when she turns around and grabs one of the little chairs at the center table, pulling it between my legs and plopping down in it.
She can’t see the tears in my eyes that way.
I have a feeling they’ve seen enough heartache and pain to last a lifetime here. They don’t need mine, too.
“How long have you been here, Lily?” I ask while I brush her hair. The couple of girls who were coloring have left, so now it’s just her and me in the bedroom. It’s calm. Peaceful despite what this place is. I imagine it’s become a sanctuary for people like Lily. I don’t know her story, but to end up here, of all places when she should be enjoying her childhood, it can’t be good.
“Ummm . . . Two years. I think.” She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve lost count.”
I clear my throat, combing through a particularly bad knot in the back of her head while trying not to hurt her.
“Do you like it?”
“Yeah. Miss Pat lets me help with the cooking and the dishes. She’s teaching me how to read right now. I read a whole book the other day without her help.”
“Wow,” my voice croaks. “That’s impressive.”
“Yeah, but the other girls can already read, so maybe not.”
“Miss Pat seems like a very nice lady.”
“She is. Way better than my last mother. She yelled a lot.”
“Moms do that, sometimes,” I murmur, thinking of my own mother, whom I haven’t spoken to since the wedding.
“My first mom was the best, though. She used to bake cookies. That’s all I remember.”
“I love cookies.”
“Me, too. I like oatmeal raisin.”
I crinkle my nose, chuckling.
“Yuck. You like wrinkly grapes?”
“They’re good,” she admonishes, turning around to face me. Her soft blue eyes twinkle with mischief. “What’s your favorite?”
“Sugar. Sugar cookies are the king in the cookie world.”
“Bo- ring ,” she laughs, then her eyes catch on my hair. “You have pretty hair. What happened to your head?”
I swallow past the rock growing in my throat. My scar.
“Uh, well . . .” I stammer, my cheeks flaming red. “I was in a sort of accident.”
She stands, then, lifting up her shirt to showcase a deep scar on her stomach, surrounded by small white marks.
Marks of a knife. Marks that match mine.
My stomach clenches, my mouth filling with saliva from the nausea roiling in my stomach.
She’s so young and . . . little.
“Me too.” She pauses, suddenly shy. “Is that why Mr. C loves you so much?”
I nearly choke on air at her observation.
It’s because he called you his wife , the voice in the back of my head chimes.
“Mr. C is a good man,” I say softly, patting the chair in front of me, and she sits back down. She’s quiet for a long moment while I braid her hair.
“You don’t have to be afraid anymore. At least, that’s what Miss Pat says. I still get scared, sometimes.”
Me too , I want to say, but she’s a child. From the looks of things, she’s come a long way from wherever she was when she first arrived.
“We all have nightmares,” I say finally, twisting her blonde locks down her back. “We just have to teach ourselves that they are just that, now. Nightmares and not real life.”
“Just got to put one foot in front of the other,” she chimes happily, kicking her feet in the chair.
“Did Miss Pat teach you that?” I chuckle.
“No. Mr. C.”
My heart flutters in my chest, the familiar burn on my skin at his proximity alerting me of his presence before I even see him. Peering back over my shoulder, I see him leaning in the doorway, watching me with a strange look in his eye. Pride? Possessiveness?
Something that definitely shouldn’t be there. Not between Christian and me.
“All done,” I say after a moment, and Lily squeals, rushing over to a mirror with a crack in the center to inspect my braid job. I’ll be honest—I’m not the best, but she doesn’t seem to care, beaming ear to ear and touching the small pink bow lightly.
“How do I look, Mr. C?”
“Like a princess,” Christian murmurs, winking at me when she twirls. “Miss Pat’s waiting for you,” he says. “Said you always help her with dinner.”
“Oh, yes. I’m very busy.” She huffs like she’s got a full itinerary of tasks that need to be completed for the day. “I have to make the pudding, and then I need to roll out the dough for our bread.”
She starts to hurry out the door but pauses, spinning and rushing back to me when I stand from her bed. The force behind her little body colliding with mine nearly sends me falling back on my ass when she hugs me.
“Thank you, Mrs. C.”
I force myself to swallow and not let the tears that gather in my eyes fall down my cheeks.
“Anytime, Lily.”