Page 33 of Saving Sparrow (Slow Burns & Tragic Beginnings #2)

Now

Sparrow didn’t blush the way Elliott did, but his shallow breathing gave him away. The story affected him. I hadn’t left out any details.

I wasn’t sure exactly how until he spoke his next words. “You traumatized him.” He sounded angry.

“We didn’t mean to.”

“Well-meaning people do bad things all the time.”

“Are you referring to your parents or yourself?” I couldn’t stop myself from asking.

Sparrow leaned forward, and I shrank back, an apology on the tip of my tongue. But then his gaze fell on my bandaged hands again. I shoved them back under the table, afraid he might be tempted to do more damage to them.

When he met my eyes again, some of the hostility was gone. He seemed to alternate between wanting to hurt me and regretting that he already had.

“You said there was only one other alter at the moment…” I began, taking a chance that his now seemingly apologetic mood would earn me more answers. “Besides Joshua, I mean. Who’s the other one?” I asked before I was overtaken by a sudden coughing fit.

“Did you take the pills?”

“Yes.” I coughed again. “I took two of them.”

His gaze moved to my head, and I realized the patch of hair I’d strategically combed over the small bald spot had shifted, exposing it. The cool draft circulating the room brushed against the tender skin.

“Who’s the other one?”

His eyes snapped back to mine. “Someone you wouldn’t want to meet.”

Was he insinuating that this other alter was worse than him? I barely held back my shudder. “So, who are the other bedrooms for?” Were they just spare rooms he liked to keep locked? Maybe the doors were simply closed.

“One’s empty. Pointless.”

It might have been empty, but I doubted it was pointless. “And the other one?”

“For an occasional visitor.” He chose his words wisely. Not an outright lie, perhaps, but not the whole truth. Something told me this “visitor” wasn’t a friend or family member stopping by from out of town.

“Enough questions,” he said in a clipped tone, raising his chin as if daring me to challenge that. I took a different approach.

“Elliott said he grew up in a religious community before moving here. He said his father worked for one of the elders.”

I’d never seen anything more frightening than the mocking smile that slowly spread across Sparrow’s face. I wasn’t even sure it qualified as a smile at all.

“Is that what he said?” It wasn’t a question meant to be answered, so I stayed quiet. “Elliott was born into a cult, and our father was the leader.”

The temperature in the dining room seemed to drop several more degrees, or maybe it was my blood that had gone ice cold.

I kept my expression neutral while noting he’d said Elliott was born into a cult, not we .

When and where had Sparrow been born? And why?

Maybe he didn’t see his arrival as a birth.

I didn’t know where to go next. Sparrow was so fickle and too unpredictable. Would anything more trigger him into beating me to a bloody pulp? Or tying me to another piece of furniture? Maybe this time he’d take it a step further.

No, I’d pried into him and Elliott enough for one night. It was time I shared pieces of myself. Parts that my history with Elliott wouldn’t reveal, parts I hadn’t already shared with Sparrow as I sobbed upstairs.

He had yet to mention my earlier confessions, nor did he look at me with pity since I’d shown up for dinner. Maybe he didn’t even care, but I felt compelled to tell him more anyway.

“We were poor when my mother and Quentin’s father met. He’d been on a business trip, having dinner with some investors. She was his waitress.” I stared at a groove in the wooden tabletop, not wanting to see the possible look of disinterest in Sparrow’s gaze.

“We moved a lot, but all the apartments were the same. Tiny and cold. She rarely made enough money to keep the heat on or the electricity running. It wasn’t so bad during the day. At least I could see the rodents in the daytime. Our last apartment was infested with them.”

I glanced up at him, my heart pounding at his blank stare. But… he’d sat forward. It was barely noticeable, but he had, as though my story called to him in some way even he didn’t realize.

“The nights were cold and dark,” I whispered, phantom winter smoke billowing from my lips.

“I couldn’t see them scurrying across my bed mat at night, but I could feel them crawling over my skin.

” I stared through the archway into the kitchen at the darkness beyond the barred window over the sink.

“The cold and the dark,” I breathed, thoughts growing distant.

“I hated them both then. I still do now.”

“Someone should have protected you from all that,” Sparrow said, the shock of his words jolting me out of my memories. Was that what he did for Elliott? Protected him from whatever horrors he’d had to live through as a child?

“She did the best she could.” I waited for the stab of pain I normally felt when I brought her up.

Other than the aches and pains I could account for since being here, I felt nothing.

I guessed finally admitting out loud that she’d chosen to take her own life had healed something in me.

In a strange way—one that I couldn’t quite articulate—I felt grateful to Sparrow for that.

“Quentin took over when she died. He protected me.” Saying his name made me want to cry again, but I wouldn’t lose precious moments with Sparrow to a breakdown. We didn’t feel like captor and prisoner in that moment, and who knew if we’d ever sit across from each other in this way again.

“The windows are old.” He gestured to the set of windows behind me.

“I can’t let anyone in here to fix them.

” Was this his way of apologizing for the house never being warm enough?

Did my story prompt the apology masked as a random comment, the same way my confession about my mother’s death earned me an invitation to dinner?

I was starting to think I could become an expert on Sparrow if I kept paying attention.

“I understand,” I said softly, glancing over my shoulder at the rattling panes beyond the bars. “You have to protect them.” And letting the wrong person in could put them all in danger.

I took a chance, asking one last question, hoping it was harmless enough not to annoy him.

“How long does the polar night last this close to the North Slope?”

“Months.”

How long will we be here? I wanted to ask next, but didn’t want to hear him sneer about how we wouldn’t be going anywhere. I also didn’t want to run the risk of him informing me I still might not make it out of here alive.

“Your personalities couldn’t be more different,” I said carefully. “You’re dark, and he’s light. You’re unafraid, and Elliott’s timid, shy.”

“Did you have a problem with the way he was?” he snapped, and for once his aggression didn’t make me flinch. His protective nature reminded me of Quentin.

“No. The opposite, actually. He was innocent, sweet, and perfect, and he only got to be that way because he had you. So, thank you.” I didn’t know the full extent of what Sparrow protected my husband from.

But I knew wholeheartedly that Quentin and I wouldn’t have found our beautiful, delicate Elliott if it weren’t for the man sitting in front of me.

Sparrow didn’t know what to do with that. His eyes widened, and color rose in his cheeks.

“You do blush,” I breathed, forgetting my circumstances. “Beautiful.” I missed Elliott so much that it caused me to forget who I was speaking to, who I’d complimented.

Sparrow locked himself down, snarling. “That’s enough.” He shoved up from his chair, stacking our cups and bowls. He still hadn’t eaten any of his food.

“I can help.” I stood too, reaching for the carafe of water.

“Don’t.” The singular word held so much anger; it was almost tangible. He was still flushed, still beautiful.

Apologizing would’ve made things worse because it would imply that what I said bothered him. Maybe even embarrassed him.

I listened as he washed the dishes, and when the faucet cut off and silence fell, I peeked through the archway.

Through the window’s reflection, I watched as he stared into the sink, feeling around his cheeks like he was checking for the warmth of his blush, or the proof of his beauty. I went back to staring at the china cabinet in front of me.

“Let’s go,” he said from the archway before turning on his heels and walking away.

I hurried to catch up, my gaze going to the hammer he was holding.

Did he plan to use that on me? Tiny pinpricks of fear spread across my whole body, giving me the sensation of ants crawling over my skin.

It took me back to my bed mat in that tiny, cold apartment.

“What’s that for?” I asked, struggling to keep up. The pinpricks intensified, spreading to my brain when he didn’t respond. I coughed all the way up the stairs and down the hall, wondering if it was too soon to take more medicine.

As soon as we entered the bedroom, Sparrow headed for the closet, returning with the patchwork blanket I’d put back on the shelf. I stood near the bed, scratching my itchy forearms.

Sparrow hauled the armchair in front of the window, then stood on it before proceeding to hammer the quilt along the frame. To keep the draft out , I realized.

Next, he pulled a box of matches from his pocket to get a fire started, adding extra logs to the flame to keep it going all night. With nothing left to do, he headed for the door.

“Can you stay… for a little while?” Spending time with him downstairs, although scary at times, felt good. I would’ve done anything not to be left alone again.

“No.” He’d stopped after brushing past the couch but didn’t look at me. I noticed he didn’t like looking at me before he left.

“Are you going to lock me in?” Please say no, please say no, please say no…

I knew he meant well by hanging up the quilt, but it blocked out the light of the moon, making it darker inside the room.

It also made me feel more insulated, boxed in.

Being locked in would heighten that, like being sealed inside a tomb.

“That’s a little pointless now, isn’t it?” He likely assumed that if I’d gotten out once, I could get out again.

“I suppose so,” I said, playing into it.

“You can’t get out,” he said in a low warning tone, and I knew he meant the house, not the room. “Every door to the outside requires a key to be opened, and every window is barred.”

The windows up here were only nailed shut, which meant I’d just need to break the glass to get out.

As if knowing exactly where my thoughts had drifted, Sparrow said, “A jump from this high will leave you broken—if not dead.” As if also predicting that I’d wonder if the several feet of snow on the ground would cushion my fall, he added, “And if the fall doesn’t kill you, the cold and the dark will. ”

He’d played on my fears to ensure I didn’t get any bright ideas.

Oddly, it left me feeling hurt and betrayed.

But there was a strained look on his face when I stepped into his line of sight.

Worry, maybe? Had he reminded me of what terrified me to protect me?

To keep me safe here, with him? Was I now safe with him?

“If you disturb anything in this house, if you venture to areas you don’t belong… I will make you regret it.”

“Would you really hurt me again?”

“I will protect them,” he replied, but it didn’t seem as though he got any pleasure out of his answer.

In the quiet between us, the low wheeze I emitted with every breath took on a life of its own.

“Take another dose of medicine,” he ordered before continuing his stride for the door.

“Sparrow, wait.” I’d never addressed him by his name before. It felt too intimate on my lips. It felt like I’d crossed a line. He turned to me with a look that said as much.

“How do I get him back?”

Sparrow crept closer, as if wanting me to see how serious he was. He looked me square in the eye as he whispered, “You don’t.”