Page 92 of Under Your Scars

One of my valets has Elliot and Bethany’s luggage rolling at his sides. “Where would you like me to put these, Mr. Reeves?”

A thump and then the sound of glass shattering pulls all our attention to Elliot, who is staring down at the shards of what was once a vase of fresh flowers kept in the foyer. He’s taking deep breaths and his focus is somewhere else. His grip on Elena is so tight her face is twisted in pain.

Bethanytsks. “Oh, Elliot, you’re a bull in a China shop.”

I wave my hand to indicate that it’s no big deal. It’s just a vase. “Don’t worry about it. Are you okay, Mr. Young?”

Elliot continues to stare at the floor, breathing heavily for several seconds. Then, he takes a deep breath, stands up straight, walks right past us, and lets himself out to the backyard without a word.

“Pardon my husband’s bad manners,” Bethany apologizes, narrowing her eyes in Elliot’s direction. Then, she takes over caring for her daughter, leading Elena towards the guest rooms. I hover in the corridor entrance, and my heart aches painfully when I hear Elena insist that she wants a very specific room.

Which happens to be the furthest away from mine.

The chasm of space between us is torture. This is my penance for everything I’ve done the past two years. All the lives I’ve taken and all the suffering I’ve inflicted. I had everything, and it’s been ripped away. I don’t think I’ll ever be the same man. I thought I knew pain before. All I’ve done for the past thirty years is alternate between feeling numb and angry.

Elena made me taste happiness. Loving her was a drug I got addicted to after a single hit, and if I thought I’ve ever known what it was like to feel empty before, I was so wrong. This is what it feels like to be empty. To see my future so clearly and then watch it crumble.

She saved my life, but I’ve ruined hers.

I retreat to my bedroom, locking the door behind me. I pull a pocketknife out of my nightstand and then head into the bathroom.

“Fuck.” I look like shit. It’s been three days and I look like I’ve lost ten pounds. I guess that’s not surprising considering I’ve put nothing in my body except black coffee and a bottle of water. My eyes are sunken into their sockets and my cheeks are hollow. Shaking my head at how pathetic I am, I roll up the left sleeve of my hoodie and hold my arm over the sink. Flipping open the knife, I take a deep breath and run the sharp edge along my wrist, slowly, forcing myself to feel every millimeter of the cut.

Then I do it two more times, until my hands are trembling and blood pools in my sink. I grit my teeth in frustration. This used to make me feel better. This used to get me through the day. Now it feels like nothing. Taking an angry breath, I slice my skin two more times. Still nothing. I throw the knife across the room so hard it impales itself into the wooden laundry hamper.

I connect my fist with my face in the reflection of the mirror. Itjustgot replaced from the last time I went on a rampage in here, but I don’t give a fuck. I need to make myself hurt.

Finding an abundance of partially used rolls of gauze in my drawers, I rinse the cuts on my wrists, clean the wounds, and then wrap them up. I pull my sleeves back down and rest my fists against the countertop, closing my eyes while the lightheadedness passes.

I need a cigarette. Or ten.

Seems like Elliot had the same idea, because he’s six cigarettes deep when I get to the back patio, the evidence of his chain-smoking discarded in the ashtray on a small table. I take a deep breath and slump into the chair on the other side of the table and light my own cigarette. The smoke wafts into the air between us.

I glance over at Elliot. He’s got gray hair, with remnants of rich brown locks scattered throughout. His eyes are blue, so Elena got her mother’s eyes. He’s clean shaven and his thinning hair is neatly groomed. He has the demeanor of a man that’s well put-together and very meticulous about things. It must be from all the years he spent in the Army.

His hands are shaking as he lights yet another cigarette and rests his elbows on his knees while he supports his head in his hands. I can’t tell if the shaking is from the high concentration of nicotine or frustration.

“Are you okay?” I carefully ask. He begins to chuckle.

“Never better,” he says in a gruff voice. I can tell he’s been a smoker for most of his life. I’ve got a bad addiction to cigarettes, but even I don’t have that gravel in my voice that a lifetime smoker does. “Everything’sfuckin’perfect.” He lets out an exasperated sigh. “I should have never let her come to this goddamn city. I told her—I fuckin’ told her this place would eat her alive.”

Frustration it is.

I shrug. “She’s committed to building her career here.”

“You think I don’t know that?” he snaps, finally looking at me. Our stares meet, and something flickers across his eyes. It almost looks like disappointment. He smirks with the cigarette hanging out of his mouth and chuckles. “Beautiful home you’ve got here.”

“Thank you. My father designed it.”

Elliot cocks his head to the side. “Thomas was always over the top.”

That makes me pause and sit up straighter. “You knew my father?”

“Briefly,” Elliot offers vaguely. Small world. I snuff out the remnants of my cigarette and Bethany slides open the backdoor. She makes a disgusted face and waves her hands in front of her nose.

“Smells like lung cancer and despair out here,” she tries to lightly tease as she narrows her eyes at her husband and scowls. “Christian, Elena is asking for you.”

I furrow my brow. “For me?” I ask, shocked. “Are you sure?”