Grievous (Scarlet Scars #2)(97)

He laughs bitterly as he tilts his head back, slouching in the chair, stretching his legs out, covering his eyes with his forearm. The gun rests on his thigh, in his lap, his free hand on top of it, keeping it securely in place as his leg steadily moves back and forth. Antsy.

“There’s more to the story,” I say quietly after a moment.

His arm shifts, his eyes meeting mine.

“The Juniper Tree,” I say, holding up the book I bought to show him. “The little boy is reincarnated into a bird, which is born from the tree. The bird sings a song, rats out the stepmother, and she dies as punishment for killing him, before he’s once again reborn into a kid.”

Lorenzo blinks a few times, his voice completely flat as he says, “That sounds like bullshit.”

“Better than the story you told me.”

“I like my version better.”

“Do you?” I ask. “Really?”

Another question that goes unanswered.

“Didn’t think so,” I whisper.

He sits up. Fast. So fast it catches me off guard. I freeze in place as he shoves out of the chair, gripping the gun tightly so it doesn’t fall to the floor. He doesn’t aim it, doesn’t even raise it, instead slamming it down on the table beside me as he stalls in front of me. “What do you want from me, Scarlet? Huh? Haven’t I done enough for you?”

“You’ve done more than enough, but—”

“But,” he says, cutting me off. “There’s always a but, isn’t there? Nothing’s ever good enough as it is; we have to tack on a fucking but.”

I stare him in the face as I set the book down on the table. He’s struggling hard to control himself right now. I don’t know what’s gotten into him, but something has him teetering on the edge.

“Are you okay?” I whisper, pressing my palm to his scarred cheek, my thumb gently stroking the rough skin.

He doesn’t like that.

At all.

Instantly, he pulls back, moving out of my reach, anger flickering across his expression. He leaves the gun on the table beside me as he clenches his hands into fists, like he’s about to punch something, like he might find that so much more satisfying at the moment than pumping bullets through whatever it may be.

Not me, though.

He won’t hit me.

You might be sitting there thinking I’m stupid, that I’m insane for thinking that way. A few minutes ago, the guy had a gun aimed at me, so what makes me think he’ll keep his hands to himself?

Well, it’s simple, really... it’s what I told Sasha.

He’s got a heart in his chest.

I see it when I look him in the eyes. I see the agony he feels. He’s tortured, twisted, all tied up in knots. He’s busy beating himself up inside. But most people don’t see that, because they don’t look at him. They turn away from the surface, terrified, because what he shows the world can be downright fucking scary. But if they just took a second to really see him, they’d know what I know.

They’d believe what I believe.

And what I believe is this man is far from being a monster. I’ve lived with monsters. I know them. And maybe, on the surface, Lorenzo falls into that category. Legally defined, he might be a serial killer, or maybe a spree killer... I know he has killed. Who knows how many lives he’s taken—I’m not trying to justify that. Psychologically, they’d probably diagnose him as something dangerous, but I believe the world is wrong about him.

Because I see what they don’t bother looking for, assuming it must not be there.

I see his conscience. I see his compassion.

I’ve listened to the heart strongly beating in his chest that he desperately tries to silence to keep everyone from hearing.

“Why are you here?” Lorenzo asks, an edge of anger to his voice, his tone almost accusatory. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know,” I say, because it’s true... I don’t know. I could list off reasons all day long as to why I might be standing here, but I’ll never know which was the reason that put me in this room. Gratitude. Guilt. Regret. Longing. Maybe it’s all of those, or maybe it’s something more, something deeper. “I just... don’t know.”

He looks away from me, scrubbing his hands over his face as he starts to pace. “Why are you doing this to me? Huh? Why can’t you just stop? Why can’t you leave? Just go the fuck away?”

“Is that what you want?”

“Yes!”

He yells the word so loud that I cringe. Oh no, his hands won’t ever hit me, but his words might. It’s like a punch straight to the chest.

“I want you gone,” he says. “I want you out of my life. Out of my system. I don’t want to spend another goddamn second thinking about you, wondering about you, worrying about you. I don’t want to look at you, don’t want to see you or smell you or taste you or hear you. I don’t want this. Do you get that? I don’t want any of this. It’s driving me fucking insane. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t think. I hate this, whatever this is... whatever this bullshit is that I’m feeling because of you. Make it go away.”

I just stare at him, because I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t know much of anything right now except what I’m feeling, and even that is hard to comprehend.