Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Safe harbor.
I thought I had mine.
Turns out that once you marry a hunter, you won’t have one.
Because he’ll find you anywhere.
Even in hell.”
Diana
Diana
“I’m very concerned, Diana,” the housekeeper says as I change into my long white dress since my grandmother doesn’t allow me to wear anything else in here.
According to her, if one chooses to enter her domain, they must wear proper attire, which she defined as presentable long dresses for women and suits for men.
That’s how she showed respect for the house that had been passed down through generations from mother to daughter, the one she planned to give to me.
Sadly, she got sick before she could transfer the deed over to my name.
Thankfully, it’s located in the middle of nowhere, and my father always considered it “too small to use for anything useful.” While the architecture is unique and interesting, no one was interested in acquiring the property.
It has a beautiful garden, but it’s a far cry from the luxurious mansions high society seems to have.
This allowed me to keep the keys and come here whenever I needed to unwind or just lock myself away from the world.
The only people taking care of it are Marta, the said housekeeper, and her husband, the gardener. I'm not sure how they still get a salary for their work. I think they would have stayed even if no one paid them a dime.
“This is so unlike you,” Marta mutters again when I grab my bow and arrows, checking the sharp tips.
Last time I played with them, the tips got damaged, and I had to order a new set.
Forgoing the shoes, as I prefer to feel the ground underneath me to better gauge the weather, I head to the door.
The cozy one-level house could use some renovations, but it might lose its charm. “I’m very concerned,” she repeats.
“Why are you concerned? I always come here for archery and rest.” I would have come more often, but ever since Grandma got sick, it's been hard to find solace in these walls. They had the power to heal me because they created a protective cocoon from my father and brother. Once she was admitted to the hospital, though, it felt as if my cocoon got destroyed, and coming here brought me more pain. Plus, I didn’t want to develop further attachment to the place because I knew my father would have sold it just to hurt me.
“That was in the past. Now you’re married. It’s a bad sign.”
I pause and look at her. “It’s a bad sign?”
She nods, adjusting the mug on the tray she’s holding and moving it closer to the chocolate chip cookies. The woman is always trying to feed me.
“Yes. You use archery as an outlet for your frustration. And you’re here alone. It means there are problems in your marriage, and it makes me concerned.”
Great.
My best friend also noticed things, and it was why I avoided her phone calls all day. I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to explain that my husband is a serial killer, but not your run-of-the-mill serial killer.
She’d deem me a delusional idiot and call the cops to rescue me.
“Stop bothering our girl, Marta. Her marriage is no one’s business but her own.” Martin waves at me as we exit the house, trimming the bushes and catering to all the flora around here. “Let her unwind.”
“Fine. Prepare the shotgun. In case her husband comes in here angry.”
“Woman, I’ve never used a gun in my life, and you want me to threaten her husband with one?”
She places her hand on her hips and nods. “Yes.”
“Well, all right then.” And he resumes his work while Marta beams at me.
Shaking my head at their dynamic and how easy their marriage seems to be, I go to my usual place in the garden with several targets spread through the perimeter, far away from each other.
I place my arrows and bow down. Grabbing my water bottle, I take a drink and look up as dark clouds gather with no hint of rain.
The wind whooshes, plastering my dress all over my legs, and Marta clicks her tongue. “The weather is awful for archery.”
Yes, the wind isn’t my friend today. What’s the point of archery, or any sport for that matter, if there is no challenge in it?
“It’s fine.”
“All right, all right. I’m going to leave you alone. We’ll have dinner inside soon. Drink some tea. The wind is freezing.” She places the tray on the patio table and pats me on the shoulder. “Have a nice time, darling.”
Mustering up a smile, I wait for her to go inside before exhaling a heavy breath and finally allowing my mind to think about what I discovered back home.
No.
Back at Orion’s home.
Until I figure out what the hell is going on with me and how I feel about all the truths I uncovered this morning…I have no home.
Which is a sad fact in itself.
Grabbing the bow and an arrow, I pull my arm back and focus on the target in front of me. It’s almost by the trees, and the minute the wind stops just for a second, I let go and watch it score me a bull’s-eye.
My husband is a murderer, no matter how much I twist the facts or think he acted for the greater good. Though he may have saved lives by eliminating all these men…the truth remains.
He’s a murderer, and there is blood on his hands that nothing and no one would ever wipe away.
Snatching another arrow, I walk to the left and pull my arm back, zeroing my attention on the target that’s slightly crooked, standing several feet away from the first one.
A blast of wind hits me in the face, my hair fluttering backward while I even out my breathing and wait.
Once the time is perfect, I let go, and it hits another bull’s-eye, although the arrow is barely holding on.
I hum in displeasure and go back to the patio table.
“What should I do?” I whisper, munching on the cookie as my time with Orion flashes in my mind.
Beautiful, tempting memories of feeling adored and cherished for the first time in my life.
Even my grandmother’s love was conditional, and I was always afraid to lose it.
She took me in and accepted me as her granddaughter, giving me access to a good education and putting a roof over my head.
She’d even encourage my love for reading, and we’d have long conversations about different stories, or she’d share the town’s gossip with me while drinking her scotch.
However, she never shielded me from Father or Grant, quietly accepting their mistreatment of me, and whenever she saw the wounds on my back, she advised me to never speak about them.
Because family matters should never be discussed with outsiders.
My husband made me think it was okay to just be myself.
However, what does it say about me if I don’t care what he did? I hate what he did, and I could never justify it as we have laws and rules for a reason. After all, we cannot go around killing people.
Do the ends justify the means in this case?
Dusting my hands, I grab another arrow and look at the third target positioned slightly to the right, farther away from the previous two, and pull my arm back, gritting my teeth when the boom of thunder echoes in the sky, followed by a bolt of lightning.
The wind increases its speed, only to calm down a moment later.
I fire my shot and watch it fly right into the target, this time landing several inches away when another gust of wind hits us, meaning it’s unable to reach its goal.
Glancing up at the sky, I grumble, “Could you please let me blow off some steam? I’m making life-altering decisions here.”
Or rather, coming to the realization that my morals aren’t very high.
Acting for the greater good still makes him a villain.
I was never attached to the heroes in my stories much anyway.
Does this then make me as bad as him?
“There is also Grant.”
He isn’t dead. After watching the footage, I called our old housekeeper to check what was going on and found out he’s been in the hospital for the past week.
He has various injuries that suggest he was extensively tortured and refuses to speak about it, even to the authorities.
Despite being alive, the doctors say he will have a difficult recovery, and there will be some physical functions he’ll never get back.
And scars.
His body is practically covered in them, and every single one mimics those on my back, as if Orion purposely poured salt into the wounds so they’d never heal.
I should be horrified…however, the little girl still living inside me, who he terrorized for simply existing, rejoices over what happened to him.
Because Orion did all the things Grant used to do to me as a child, and more.
The justice no one else would have given me, and if it’s wrong in the eyes of society…does it matter to me?
Where was society when my father and brother abused me, or when I showed up to school with bruises that they made a thousand excuses for? Or when my mom died?
I ran away from the mansion because I couldn’t think there.
Here in my sanctuary, I see things clearly, and they might paint me in a less-than-stellar light, but I don’t care.
And maybe that’s the scariest part of all.
If it means men like Conrad and Grant are punished, I don’t care what Orion does.
I know he would never hurt an innocent.
He’s selectively cruel, though most psychologists would say it still makes him a psychopath, as normal people wouldn’t engage in crimes to atone for the sins of his father.
Society punishes those who seek justice on their own, yet so often fails those who truly need it. Is it any wonder that some refuse to wait and act on their desires?
Never an excuse, but maybe I can live with that, as long as he doesn’t lose his head, because then I’d leave and run.
No.
I’d tell the police and watch him get locked up.
My love is not a destructive thing, and I would never want my children to suffer the way I did. My love would never justify bad or abusive behavior. Mom taught me that no matter how much you love a person, if they’re rotten inside, they won’t change.
They’ll just tarnish you until nothing is left of your soul.