Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
Ceilings — Lizzie McAlpine
CALLIOPE
I didn’t wake delicately.
I never had in the past, so why would this morning be any different?
My body wasn’t going to reward me for conquering my demons, for slaying my dragons because I’d had to become a villain myself. And that wasn’t without consequences.
My head was pounding. My muscles screamed from overexertion, even though I hadn’t done anything physical beyond stabbing Jasper in the neck. My chest heaved at a flashback of that moment, the sound of his blood, the smell.
Pushing past that, I focused on the pain in my muscles that didn’t have a truly logical reason for existing.
I reasoned that it was the tension I’d been holding in every inch of my body for the past year—fuck, for the past decade—finally releasing with the vanquishing of my enemies.
Though I didn’t feel relaxed nor victorious.
I was waiting, preparing for something I hadn’t thought of to come and best me, ruin everything.
I sucked in a painful breath and forced myself out of my pity party into the physical world. My bedroom. It smelled faintly of perfume and laundry detergent but mostly of spice. The ocean.
Of the man who had come to me in the middle of the night, while I was at my lowest, who had washed the blood from me, carried me like I was a child, dressed me, then held me until I fell asleep.
Elliot.
I was encased in his arms. His warmth permeated the ice I’d been sure had replaced my bones, brittle, cold, unyielding.
The sound of his gentle breathing and the contours of his arms worked to anchor me to the moment so I didn’t slip through the cracks in the present to the terrible events of yesterday.
I didn’t want to leave his arms ever, yet my bladder had other plans. The need was urgent, my body reminding me that my mind might’ve gone catatonic, but I was still a flesh and blood creature.
My intent was to slip from his grip without waking him, having inflicted enough on him in the middle of the night last night. And knowing Elliot, I was sure that he had barely slept. Surely, worry had kept him awake.
It was awash in every contour of his being. Despite my state last night, I had noted it. But then there was also fury, a glint in his eyes that cut through all the fuzz in my brain.
I couldn’t figure out what I felt emotionally. Disgust at what I’d done, who I truly was? Guilt for being party to it? Regret for not calling the police?
Regret and shame stabbed into me like knives, not as urgent as my throbbing bladder, though.
The second I tried to move, Elliot’s arms tightened, showing the thinness of his sleep.
“Calliope?” He jerked upright, holding us both, instantly alert, concern clouding his features.
He searched my face, brows knit.
I tried to form a sardonic smile. “Here with all of my faculties.” My voice was hoarse, as if I’d screamed for hours last night.
I had in my mind.
“And my faculties require use of the facilities,” I added, ignoring the downturn of Elliot’s lips. I nodded to the bathroom door when he didn’t move.
He reluctantly let me go, still frowning. “Do you need help?”
I stood, stretching my aching muscles while staring at him with an arched brow. “Help? In the bathroom? No, I’m not there yet. I think I can manage to pee.”
The crease of worry in between Elliot’s eyes turned into a crater as I realized where his trepidation was coming from.
“I’m far too much of a narcissist to do anything like hang myself from the shower rod,” I joked.
Elliot didn’t smile.
Suicide jokes weren’t going to work with him. Noted.
I did my best to ignore the pressing need of my bladder to let out a sigh as Elliot sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to touch me but was hesitating.
It was good that he didn’t reach for me. He shouldn’t touch me. I was soiled, impure. Truly.
I opened my mouth. To ask him to do it. Break it off cleanly so I didn’t have to keep tensing, waiting for the blow.
I closed my mouth, turned my back on him and went into the bathroom, closing the door.
My clothes were not piled in front of the shower.
There were no flakes of dried blood on the white tile, though there certainly should’ve been.
My molars ground together while I used the bathroom, fury and guilt ravaging me at how Elliot obviously cleaned up after me.
I forced myself to look in the mirror when I washed my hands. My face was pale, sallow. Smudges of purple marred the hollows of my eyes.
My hair was wild, my lips pursed in a thin line.
Who was she? The woman in the mirror?
A killer. A coward.
Elliot was still sitting on the bed when I opened the bathroom door. His elbows were propped on his knees, head in his hands.
He instantly looked at me.
I stayed in the doorway, uncertain of where to go, what to do with my face. It was awkward. Like the night after a one-night stand.
“What did you do with my clothes?” I asked him.
“I burned them.”
I didn’t reply, though my insides screeched in agony at what he’d done for me. Burning evidence of a crime. “And the bathroom? You cleaned it?”
Elliot nodded.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. There was a lot of guilt that belonged on my shoulders, but nothing was as heavy as this.
“Thank you,” I whispered, looking at the floor.
“You shouldn’t have had to do that, clean up after me, but thank you.
” I took a deep breath and faced him. “I won’t ask anything of you again.
” I tried my best to make my voice sound strong, like the Calliope I had been before yesterday.
“You can go now. I can handle myself now. All the bogeymen have been cleared from under the bed.”
“I can go?” Elliot recoiled before he pushed off the bed and stalked toward me.
My gut churned in unease, but I forced my back to stay straight, to not move an inch as he approached.
He stopped in front of me. “As much as I appreciate your commitment to your lie, you cannot handle yourself right now.” He searched my face.
“Or maybe you really believe that you can. Maybe you will be able to handle yourself.” He brought my hand to his lips, kissing my knuckles.
“But I’m not going to fucking let you, Calliope. You’re not alone. I’m not leaving you.”
The weight of his words, the conviction in them did little to warm my fractured heart. I closed my eyes, sinking into his touch for a moment before I pulled back.
“I killed Jasper last night.” I tried to keep my voice even, but my words cracked.
Elliot’s face softened. With pity. Pity for me. The killer. “I know,” he said quietly.
“I stabbed him. In the neck.” I spat out the words. “I killed him, and before that, I watched another man die at my feet.” I laid the facts out plainly, without adornment.
“The man who ordered you to be raped and beaten?” Elliot asked.
I folded my arms. “What does that matter? Who he was doesn’t matter. Who I am now does. I’m a killer, Elliot. You can’t ignore that.”
Shoulders stiff, he took me in with a measured, hard gaze. “I know I can’t ignore that, Calliope. I’d never ignore that.”
I nodded. “Good. You’re not the kind of man who sleeps with a killer. Who lets a killer put his niece to bed.” I arched my brow. “The niece whose mother I’m responsible for killing.”
Elliot shook his head. “You’re not responsible for that.”
I tapped my foot. “Am I not? I brought Jasper into Jupiter. I continued sleeping with you after he knew who you were. After he put you in the hospital.”
Elliot’s gaze narrowed “What?”
“Yeah, another secret. No, another lie.” I laughed, stomping around him because I couldn’t stand so close to him without sinking to my knees.
I plucked my robe from the hook on my door, tying it around me so I could try to keep my insides together.
“Jasper set the fire. The one you almost died in.” I crossed the room to attempt to pet the cat who had been sleeping at our feet. She hissed at me.
Bitch.
“The fire that landed me with a cat that hates me.” I straightened, looking at Elliot. “I knew he set it and didn’t tell you.”
Elliot stood there, breathing heavily, processing my words. I was pushing him. Needed to push him.
I expected him to approach me, but he walked in the direction of the clothes that were neatly folded in the armchair in the corner of the room. The cat got up to rub herself against his bare ankles as he found his jeans.
Little whore.
I paid for her to live. She was technically my cat. But she’d go home with Elliot. When he left.
The rustle of his belt against his jeans, watching him dress in preparation to leave me—even though I deserved that. I couldn’t handle it.
I turned my back to leave. To go find coffee. A pillow to scream into. But my foot had barely lifted when Elliot spoke from behind me.
“Bend over.”
My body froze.
I took a second to turn.
He wasn’t dressed. He was holding his belt, standing there in pure perfection, belt in his hands, eyes dark and lids heavy.
“Excuse me?” My voice shook.
“I told you I’d be marking your skin with my belt, didn’t I?
” he asked, voice deep. “And I’m pretty sure you running off, putting yourself in danger, keeping secrets from me under the mistaken assumption that you were protecting me, constitutes more than enough shit to punish you for.
” His jaw flexed. “Then suggest I just walk away from you like you’re not my whole fucking world?
” He shook his head. “Bend the fuck over, Calliope. Take your punishment for that.”
My vision tilted. He was serious. He wasn’t leaving me. Wasn’t disgusted by me if the outline of his cock beneath his underwear was anything to go by. I hadn’t scared him off. I’d said plenty of unforgivable things, done plenty of unforgivable things.
“Elliot,” I began, unable to let him forgive me, stay with me.
“Calliope,” he growled. “Get on the bed. Present that ass to me. Take your punishment.”