Page 128 of Kill for a Kiss

I wasn’t planning on ever leaving him. Smiling, I kiss his hair while I catch my breath.

He looks up, silver eyes shining with tears. “I don’t want you loving some idea of me,” he says. “If you stay…I want you to know all of me.”

I brush my fingers along the side of his face, feeling the tremble he tries to hide. “You’ve already trusted me with so much,” I whisper.

He shakes his head. “There’s more,” he mutters. “Things I put away. Things I didn’t want to bring with me from my past.”

He drags in a breath, and when he speaks again, it’s barely a rasp.

“Old journals.” His eyes look away, then back to me. “They’re here. In the shack. Buried where I thought no one would ever find them.”

His hand grips my hip, and the tremor in his body comes back much worse, but I know he’s being brave, showing all of himself to me.

“They’re yours, Elle,” he says. “You can see the parts of me I don’t know how to explain. The parts I don’t know how to kill.”

His eyes close like he’s bracing for the worst. But I tell him, “I want all of you, Sterling, especially the parts you thought you had to hide.”

He exhales, still shaking. I hold him through it, through the breaking and the mending. I kiss him, soft and slow. Sterling stiffens for a second. But then he leans into it. When I pull back to let us breathe, I smile, warm and sure.

We stay like this for a while, until he slips out of bed. I watch as he goes to a loose floorboard. He lifts it and from underneath pulls out a bundle of old journals, bound in twine, the edges worn with time and dust. He hands them to me with quiet trust.

I cradle them gently and settle into the pillows, untying the twine with careful fingers. The pages inside have become rough with time,the ink faded, but his handwriting is unmistakable—wild and uneven, driven by too many emotions and nowhere to put them.

I read the first few pages, absorbing pieces of the boy he used to be, the pain he never gave voice to, and the things he kept buried in ink. So much pain, rage, and loneliness for one boy to carry all alone.

While I read, he moves through the room. I hear the rustle of cloth and then the sounds of musical strings. When I glance up, he’s found a violin. Beside it rests his old mask. The mask from my earliest memory of him. Its snarling face is a symbol of a feeling I once couldn’t name. But now I see it clearly. It was never a monster’s face. It’s been an armor for a boy who was trying to survive a cruel world that demanded too much of him.

I set the journal aside and reach for the mask. It’s splintered along one edge, faded with red paint, and the strap unraveled. Nearby, I find Sterling’s old repair kit for it. Needles, thread, a few saved scraps of fabric. My hands know what to do. I stitch the strap back together carefully, my fingers steady and my heart quiet. I don’t try to restore it to what it was. I let it keep the damage.

Beside me, Sterling tunes his violin until a song fills the air. The notes move through the room, carrying hope. I close my eyes for a second, letting it wash over me. It sounds so familiar, but I can’t place it. And that’s okay. My memory is as imperfect as the frayed threads of our pasts that tie Sterling and I together. I suppose that’s who we are—imperfect apart but perfect together.

I blink up at him. “What song are you playing, my love?” I ask.

His bow glides across the strings as he answers, “The Swan.”

My smile lifts. The name fits. Between songs, he kisses me leisurely. I return them and run my fingers through the light silver in his dark hair. There’s so much more silver now.

We spend the rest of the night this way, mending what we thought was beyond repair. Him with his violin. Me with his mask. And bothof us with each other’s secrets. Alive despite it all, and finally free from what tried to break us. The past is what it is. But right now, I’m where I want to be. Here at his side. Heart close to his.

31

Sterling

Dawn days later

It’s been raining for days now. A violent crack of thunder shakes the shack, jostling me out of sleep. For a moment, I stay still, keeping track of the world by instinct.

Wind howls against the cliffs. Rain spits sideways against the battered walls. A shore away, the ocean roars. The shack groans when a gust slams into it, the old bones of the place rattling under the strain.

I sit up, every nerve on fire. Beside me, Elle stirs, reaching for me automatically. Trusting me to catch the danger she can’t see yet. I catch her hand, kiss her hair, and rise out of the cot without a word.

Another slam of wind rattles the glass. Water leaks in at the edges of the warped windows, trickling like blood down the walls.

Shit, this isn’t good. This isn’t survivable.

I pull on clothes quickly. Elle’s slipping on clothes too—just my flannel—while I hand her my coat to wear on top.

Elle’s voice cuts through the storm, rough with sleep but worried. “Sterling? What’s wrong?”