Through the Fire (Daughter of Fire, #1)(26)
“I’m sorry,” Clay murmured.
“It’s my fault.” I raised my eyes to his as the words escaped again and saw him flinch in response. I tugged at my hair, wishing I could tear out the ruby-colored evidence of my uniqueness and somehow become a normal person; a person who didn’t get her father killed because of her own selfish desires.
Words of anger and sorrow poured from me so swiftly that I couldn’t even be certain of what I’d said. My eyes burned with the dried salt of my tears, and my sobs came in great, painful chest-wrenching cries. Eventually, realizing that they weren’t helping, I slowed my sobs and stilled my tongue.
One inescapable fact kept circling my mind—if I hadn’t left Dad, he might have still been alive. He’d had no warning of the impending attack and was alone when it happened. Clay placed his hands on my shoulders and helped me back to my feet before wrapping his arms around me and pulling me against his body. With my cheek pressed tightly to his chest, I could hear the thundering of his rapid heartbeat.
“It’s all my fault,” I said again, pressing my body against Clay’s as if getting closer to him would somehow remove the pain.
“It’s not,” he insisted, lifting my chin to look at him.
I absorbed the sorrow and guilt in his eyes and understood what he meant. He’d been the one who had hunted me down and accidentally tipped off his family to my whereabouts. He’d been the reason I’d left the house when Dad had needed me most. He was the reason I’d had to endure the terror of fleeing from his brother rather than being where I should have been, at Dad’s side.
It was Clay’s family that had murdered my father. He’d known it could happen, and yet he’d forced his way back into my life anyway.
Everything fell into place in my mind. “This is your fault,” I whispered venomously.
His hold on me loosened slightly with my words, and I took the chance to pull myself fully away from him.
“You . . . you killed him!” My voice escaped as a high-pitched wail that I didn’t recognize. “You took him from me!”
Tears tracked down Clay’s face. He reached out his arms as if he wanted to hold me again, but didn’t move any closer. The defeat on his face confirmed that I was right. Whether by his action or inaction, he’d caused my father’s death. Whereas a few moments earlier, all I needed was for him to comfort me, now I wanted retribution.
“You did this to me!” I stepped toward him and smacked both of my fists against his chest in time with my words. His choices had led us to this seemingly inevitable end; he was as guilty as if he’d pulled the trigger himself. “You killed my Daddy!”
He dropped his chin to his chest as he stood still and took my abuse without fighting back or resisting. It wasn’t what I wanted; I needed him to be tormented and hurting to ease my own pain. If only I could share the agony that was flooding through every inch of my body and soul, it would ease my suffering. I wanted to be the one to inflict it on him, but I wanted to have to fight for it. I didn’t want him to just passively accept it all.
“You stole him from me!” My body warmed. as anger and sorrow flowed through me. My fists ached as they beat against Clay’s chest. As each strike fell, my emptiness grew. Inflicting physical pain on him wasn’t helping like I’d thought it would.
I needed something more.
“I hate you!” I screamed.
The words spurred him into action; he finally stopped my assault by grabbing my wrists and lifting my hands away from his body. He gripped them tightly as I continued to struggle with tears and convulsing sobs flowing from me without restraint. He pulled me into an embrace just firm enough to pin my arms and hands between us against his chest.
“We need to leave here,” he whispered against the top of my head. “It’s not safe for you.”
I tried to resist as he pulled me away from the site but, for possibly the first time ever, he used his strength against me. “Just let me find you somewhere to stay for tonight,” he said as his hands closed around my shoulder to guide me from the place where my father had lost his life. “Then I’ll go.”
I shivered as the reality of the situation struck. I had no home, no family, nothing. All I had left were the clothes on my back and even those were filthy—covered with mud, tears, and splatters of vomit.
At the thought, the fight left me completely, and I allowed Clay to guide me. I was little more than a zombie walking around with a dead heart and empty mind as he led me through the suburban streets. I was barely aware of the lights of the motel or sounds of the traffic around us.
Clay shook my shoulders lightly to rouse me from my trance.
“I’ve started a shower. It might make you feel better.”
I nodded, even though a bit of warm water on my skin would do nothing to cleanse the murky grime that coated my soul. As I trudged to the bathroom, I shed my clothes. I didn’t know or even care whether Clay was still in the room.
When I reached the bathroom, I drew back the shower curtain and stood beneath the stream. Before long, each droplet was like a lead bullet striking my skin.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
With a sob, I sank to the floor of the shower, allowing the water to carry away the evidence of my agony.
Clay came in sometime later when the tears were gone and nothing but a cold emptiness remained. I’d shut off the water in the shower, but couldn’t find the strength to get to my feet.