Chapter 13 Mackenzie
Scalding water hammers against my shoulders, each droplet a tiny brand marking my flesh as I huddle beneath the shower’s relentless spray. Tendrils of steam coil around me, thick and damp, clinging to every inch of skin.
I draw my knees up to my chest, pressing my forehead against them.
Beneath me, an ever-deepening rivulet of crimson seeps across the shower floor, the metallic scent of blood tangling with the sharp tang of soap.
It swirls the drain before vanishing, but the stain on my skin refuses to wash away.
And still—there isn’t a single tear to blur my vision.
They were my friends. And I watched them die, one by one, as a soulless madman slit their throats.
The memory should strand me at the edge of despair. Instead, in the midst of their agony, something dark flared inside me. I let him take me there, pressed between their bodies slick with their blood, and I…wanted more.
My legs shake as I push upright, the aftershock of the night knocking every ounce of strength from my limbs. All I can feel is his mouth on me, his cool hands burning a trail over my heated skin. I should be howling with rage or crumpled in grief—all I can think about is him.
I’ve never felt like this with anyone—not even Gavin.
With Daxton, it’s as if I could feel everything—the weight of his sorrow, the steel of his resolve, and—something strange—a fierce, unspoken devotion.
We met only days ago, but the haze of lust between us dissolved into something more, something perplexing.
I heard whispers deep inside me—echoes of voices that weren’t my own—that tugged at every seam of my mind.
It was as if I could hear the souls of the dead as they passed through him.
But that can’t be right…right?
Turning my back to the stream of water, I squeeze shampoo into my palm.
The suds foam white and slippery, shifting the remnants of Tiffany’s blood from my hair.
I watch the water darken around my ankles, rinse, and then repeat until every trace of gore drains away.
I scrub until my skin goes raw and my fingers wrinkle.
He’s the reason I can’t look at myself in the mirror for too long, and still I want him.
My mind rolls over the same truth in a loop—I painted him the villain, but I couldn’t tear myself from him.
It was simpler to pretend he was the only monster in the room, even though I was right there with him.
And when my instinct screamed to run, I ran—fled from his open desire and from the furious yearning in my own blood.
But I wasn’t prepared for Daxton to pursue me. Maybe that’s why I crave him. He killed for me. The very thought is both revolting and intoxicating.
I begin to wonder what my father would make of this. A man sworn to shield his country left behind a legacy, starving for warmth, who would burn their village to feel something real. Every fragment of affection I hunt now is a salve for the hollow he left inside me.
I step from the shower and tug an orange towel off the rack, its plush fabric a small comfort against the chill. Steam trails after me as I wade across the bathroom, fingertips skimming the mirror’s misty glass. I clear a circle with my knuckles and stare into gaunt eyes rimmed with exhaustion.
Dragging in a cleansing breath, I yank my blow dryer from the wicker basket on the shelf above the toilet. I stare at it in my hand for a moment, then sigh. I don’t have the energy for this—not tonight.
I toss it back into the pile of gels, mousses, and hair ties and pull a towel from the linen cabinet instead. One quick squeeze of my hair, then I throw it into the hamper. I hate going to bed with wet hair, but it’ll have to do.
Tugging the bathroom door open, I step into my bedroom, steam billowing out behind me.
“For what it’s worth, I think your father would be proud of the woman you’ve become.
” His voice startles me, but somehow the knot in my chest loosens, and I’m not sure if these are my true feelings or if he’s somehow the one easing my anxiety—he’s constantly crawling around in my mind.
“I can only hear your thoughts, I can’t sway your feelings, and even if I could…
I wouldn’t,” he answers as if it is normal to hear the thoughts of others.
“Why did you come back?” My voice cracks, unshed tears warm behind my eyelids.
He watches me, pale eyes shining like distant stars. “If you wish for me to leave, I’ll go. But you sounded like you needed a friend.”
My heart races at his nearness. I don’t want him to leave.
My feet move before I think, and suddenly I’m in his arms, the world narrowing to the rough thread of his hoodie beneath my fingers, the scent of smoky embers and dark tides wrapping me in a strange, soothing embrace.
Faintly, I hear the echoes of the dead—voices carried on some hidden current.
Strangely, I find them more comforting than the silence of my own mind.
“No, stay.” My voice trembles with fear—the constant fear of fighting this battle alone again.
The thought that he might tell me that I’m a stupid mortal who should suck it up because there is someone out there who has it way worse than me.
But still, I hold on to him as if he is the anchor in the treacherous storm of emotions that threaten to pull me under.
“Stay,” I whisper again, voice trembling.
He lifts my chin with a warm fingertip. “Look at me.” His gaze is unwavering. “You’re allowed to feel everything. Yes, someone may have suffered more. But that doesn’t make your pain any less real.”
The words land in my chest like warm coals. My tears break free, streaming down my cheeks in trembling rivulets. No one—no one—has ever told me it was okay to hurt, that my pain is valid. No one ever cared.
He guides me to the edge of my bed, settling me into his lap, and he cradles me as if I might shatter. I study the planes of his face—so handsome, so still—while bile pools in my throat.
“When your father came to me, he was one of the few souls that I remembered because he did not come in despair.” The words hit like ice-cold water trickling down my spine, and I can’t seem to find my own.
“He was fearless, your father—his only concern was if his family would be okay without him. He knew that his path would lead him to me earlier than he would have liked, and made peace with it long before you were born.”
The words dig into my spine, icy revelation.
“W-what?” I search his gaze for an ounce of his normal bravado and find none.
“If you doubt anyone else, never doubt your father cared,” he says the words as if they are the easiest things he’s ever said.
A sob slips free, and I hold onto him like a lifeline.
“He loved you, Mackenzie. Your mother does too—she is just half of herself without him. I know it may not be fair to say this right now.” His voice falters.
“But give her a little grace. She’s drowning too—in your own ways, all of you are.
Her, your sister, your brother…you. Your pain is evidence of the love that you all have for one another, and the love he had for all of you. ”
His hand moves in slow circles along my back, the only anchor preventing me from dissolving entirely.
Usually I’d flee these feelings—bolt from any vulnerability—but my legs are jelly, and grief feels too heavy to outrun.
I blink at him, mouth dry, heart pounding with love, forgiveness, and a suffocating yearning—an unchained melody of regrets that I can’t take back.
My thoughts drift to the last time I spoke with Dad—through a crackling video call on my iPad.
“Just a little longer, and then I’ll come home, I promise.” His dark eyes mirror mine, and I frown.
“You said that last time.” The amount of tears I’ve cried this week is absurd. And as I plop down into my computer chair, I put my chin on my knee, the other leg swinging idly as I look at Captain Roman Alejandro Vidente through my iPad screen.
“I know, mija. It’s not what we had hoped for, but what do we always say?”
“We’ve got to push on,” I murmur, my voice just above a whisper.
“Ajá, esa es mi nina. ?Ahora, dónde está tu mamá?” He claps his hands, rubbing them together, a big smile illuminating his face, eager to speak to the love of his life.
“She’s picking up RJ from football practice,” I tell him, gulping back tears.
He frowns with a sigh, stress lines creasing his handsome features. “Ah, well, I’ve only got ten more minutes before they need me back, and I have to call your tia. Tell her I called?”
“Yeah.” I nod.
“I love you, mija.”
“Bye, Dad.”
The spoiled, entitled brat that I am, I never told him I loved him back, and that was the last time I ever spoke to him.
“He knew.” Daxton’s husky voice draws me out of my daydream. “He knew how much you loved him, Mackenzie. Trust me, he knew.”
It feels cruel that Daxton can pluck memories from my mind. Unfair that Dad’s thoughts are open to him. It’s tragically unfair.
When my father first died, I tried everything I could think of to get him to come back to me—just once. He never did. No matter how much I cried. No matter how much I desperately begged, no matter what incantations I tried. Every moment of silence felt like another door slamming shut.
Eventually, when my heart couldn’t take it anymore, I pushed him to the farthest corner of my mind. Even though all I wanted was one last glimpse at him, to know what he was thinking, to tell him that I love him and that I’m sorry…
“I can tell you,” Daxton answers, although my lips never move. “I’ll share them with you if you want me to. You need only to ask.”
Standing on the precipice between the known and unknown is a hell of a drug. It’s the highest high—but the more I think about how no one else gets this kind of clarity, how no one else gets to see behind the curtain, the more depressing it becomes.
“I think you should go.”
His brow creases, hurt and confusion in his eyes. “We don’t have to—”