Grievous (Scarlet Scars #2)(93)

“Morgan,” the guy said, standing up. “Open your eyes, baby.”

The woman looked, the sight of her nearly crippling, the little girl’s knees going weak. Mommy. She was there, right in front of her, not asleep anymore. Her eyes were open, looking straight at her. “Sunshine?”

The little girl trembled. “Mommy?”

The woman opened her arms, sobbing, and that was all it took. Emotion flooded through the little girl as she launched herself right at her.

“You found me, Mommy. You found me!”





Chapter Twenty-Three





Buster.

It’s the first thing I see when I open the front door. It falls over, halfway in the house, halfway on the porch, the decrepit teddy bear propped up there. The moment my eyes meet it, my insides drop. My heart stops. Breath hitching, my gaze scans the area around the house, caught off guard.

It’s near dawn, the sun slowly rising, lightening the quiet neighborhood. Nothing looks out of place.

No familiar cars.

No familiar faces.

No Lorenzo.

I left the bear at his house. I know. I saw it the morning Kassian showed up. It had been lying in the unmade bed, tangled up with the sheets.

Reaching down, I carefully pick it up before stepping out onto the porch, keeping the front door open behind me, to listen inside, in case Sasha wakes up. I just need some fresh air. I need out of there.

Coming back here was harder than I imagined.

Sighing, I sit down on the top step, hugging the bear as I stare out at the neighborhood. It’s strange, you know. I lived here for years. We built a life in this house, found happiness within these walls, loved beneath the sloped, dark roof, and for months after it all fell apart, I yearned to be back here. But stepping inside now, all I feel is the heartache. I feel the void. The violence. The pain.

When I walk the halls, I feel the fear I felt that night, when Kassian showed up at the front door under the cloak of darkness, and I told Sasha to hide. When I step into the kitchen, I feel hands around my throat, squeezing the life out of me, stealing my soul.

It doesn’t feel like home anymore.

“Mommy?”

Sasha’s voice is quiet, guarded, as it rings out behind me in the doorway. I turn my head, looking back at her as she eyes me warily. I didn’t hear her approach. So much unlike the little girl who grew up in this house, who couldn’t ever seem to tiptoe because she danced when she walked. She has always been good at hiding, but she’d learned to sneak around, learning to not make a sound. I can’t even bring myself to dwell on how that came about.

“Hey, sunshine,” I say, giving her a smile. “Somebody else wants to say hello, too.”

Her eyes flicker around, alarmed. “Who?”

I hold up the bear. “This little guy.”

She hasn’t mentioned him, so I’m not sure how she’s going to react. Maybe she won’t care. Maybe Kassian stole that part of her, the part that believed in magic, the part of her that loved her bear like he was real. Maybe she won’t want him. Maybe she’ll be upset. Maybe she’ll think he let her down, because she always believed the damn bear would protect us. Maybe... maybe... maybe... but I hope it isn’t so. I need her to still have some of that innocence she deserves.

She looks at it, her eyes widening, as I hold my breath. It takes her a second before she even reacts at all. “Buster!”

She sprints out onto the porch, snatching the bear from my hand, before flinging herself at me, nearly knocking me down. I laugh as she clings to both me and the bear.

“Mommy, it’s Buster!” she squeals. “He came back!”

“He did.”

“Where did you find him?”

“Right here,” I say. “He was sitting on the porch, waiting for us, this morning when I woke up.”

She smiles, a wide kind of smile. Her whole face lights up. Sitting down beside me on the step, pressing up against me, she studies the bear in her lap. Her fingers run along the messy, dark stitches holding parts of the bear together. “Somebody gave him surgery. They saved him from Daddy!”

I try to keep a straight face, but I grimace. Daddy. The man never deserved that title.

“Or,” I say, nudging her, “maybe Buster saved himself.”

“Maybe,” she agrees, pausing before adding, “but he didn’t give himself his surgery.”

“How do you know?”

She gives me a look, like I’m being ridiculous. “Because he can’t.”

“Why not?”

“He doesn’t have no thumbs. He only has his paws.”

“Oh.” I glance at the bear. Can’t really argue with that logic. She was always too smart for her own good. “Well, in that case, somebody else certainly gave him surgery, but it looks like he still needs some more work.”

He’s still missing his right eye.

Needs a good scrubbing, too.

He’s filthy.

“Daddy didn’t like Buster,” she says. “He put him in his fire because he said I was being bad, and then I couldn’t have him back until I said I loved him, but then he didn’t even believe me when I did, so I never got him again.”

She frowns, poking her bottom lip out.

I have no idea what to say, how I’m supposed to handle this, how I’m supposed to explain it to her so she’ll understand. I was never exactly equipped to be a mother, but this is so out of my realm of expertise. I’m terrified of messing her up, of her growing up traumatized. I don’t have a little Dr. Phil in my pocket to walk me through these things, so I’m just going to be real with her, because honesty is the best policy, right?