Until she sees our baby, she will never be truly able to grieve our loss.
Taking in every detail of the photo on my screen, I pour some more hot water into the bath.
Handing her the phone, I take a step back. I’m not a coward. I don’t want to leave her, but she’s going to need space for all the feelings that are about to hit her.
The loud sobbing gasp that fills the room echoes through me, burning me from the soles of my feet to the top of my head. Every organ. Every bone. Every cell. Every molecule. Scorched.
She doesn’t look at it for long before she slams the phone to her chest, tears rivering down her face, her body wracking with soul-shattering sobs.
Barely able to breathe, she hunches over her knees. Silent keening agony cloys the air. It doesn’t matter how much I want to hold her. How badly I want to comfort her. None of that is what she needs right now.
Swallowing down my own tears, I walk out of the bathroom, bringing the door with me until it’s ajar and all I can hear are her choking sobs increasing, becoming louder and louder until they threaten to echo through the entire suite.
Chapter 25
Christopher
It takes me longer than normal to gather myself. I go about getting a fresh shirt for Arabella and leaving it on the bed. The thought to ask Cassie to drop some fresh clothes comes belatedly, and in a way, I like that she doesn’t have anything to wear. It means that she can’t run. And after this, there’s a possibility that she won’t just run, she’ll ask me for those papers I burned last night.
You should’ve shown it to her earlier.
It should’ve been the first thing you did.
But protecting Arabella has been and always will be my number one priority. It’s the reason why I shoulder all the blame for that night. I should’ve protected her. Not the other way around.
Checking the room, I take a deep breath as I close my hand around the intricate brass knob. A spectrum of emotions roils inside me, making it impossible for me to get a hold of myself.
Get it together, dickhead!
Game face on.
No weakness.
He’s just a man.
Except Benedict is so much more. My deep-seated respect for him makes all the anger and disdain feel out of place and wrong. But he hurt Arabella. He hurt his daughter, and he used mine to do it. And in all my thoughts, what ifs and daydreams about her…there was never a single moment where I would’ve hurt my child to bolster my own ambitions. I would’ve never put anything above my daughter. I would’ve died before I let myself or any other fucker hurt her.
Except you didn’t die. Did you?
I may not have died that night, but every day since it feels like I die a thousand deaths with every thought and recollection of her.
The curtains billow slightly, the nets blowing through the small gap between the heavier tapestry like ones that muffle the noise from the busy road down the street. Peach-and-gold brocade and filigree shimmer with the warm light from the lamps dotted around various surfaces.
The varnished chestnut, silk, cotton, and crystal that are meant to bring opulence and rich warmth do nothing to settle my overwhelming need to retaliate. Every part of me is screaming Attack! and that fucking voice in my head keeps telling me I need to pull back. I need to chill—be the iceberg Benedict has always told me to be.
Opening the door, I drag in a deep, cool breath and step out to the sitting area just as the bathroom door cracks open and Arabella walks into the bedroom.
It feels like my body might physically split in half. That’s not possible though, so I take a couple of small steps back into the bedroom, coming to a stop when our eyes meet. Her hair is dripping wet around her puffy face. Her slim frame looks thinner, waifish almost, and her small height looks shorter.
I want nothing more than to envelop her in my arms and press her so tightly to me that she physically melts into me. It won’t just be her soul living in me; it’ll be every part of her infiltrating every part of me. But without saying a word, her dark eyes glint coldly and destroyed.
Not now.
I’m not ready.
I need space.
I need time.
I need you to leave.
Desperately, I try to shut that voice in my head up, but the harder I try, the louder it becomes. Because it’s not my voice, it’s not my conscience. It’s her.
We’ve always been like this. Talking to one another in crowded rooms with a single glance. Comforting one another without saying a word.
Our connection runs deep like still waters. Calm on the surface. However, beneath it’s all current and storm. Pushing and pulling. Giving and taking. Fighting and saving.
That’s who we are. She inhabits me and I inhabit her.
Tonight, though, she doesn’t need me or us. Arabella needs herself. Although I want to push and fight to save her from her pain, I know it’s the selfish thing to do.
You’ve been selfish enough, Christopher.
The longer I look at her, the tighter she holds on to her towel, still pressing my phone to her chest. Like she wants to do to it what I want to do to her.
Stepping back, I hold her in my sight for as long as I can. Telling her all the things I need her to know.
I love you.
You are everything.
I’m sorry.
I promise to make it better.
We will make it through this.
Suns, moons, and stars.
Forever and eternity.
Infinite light years.
You are not a queen.
You are history, religion, and love.
You are my god, and I will worship you throughout all of time, Arabella Sinclair.
Through life and death.
Beginnings and ends.
Stare falling to the thick silver carpet, her heavy tears glitter as they fall through the air to her feet. Quiet but all the while lethal. Every charcoal stain materialising around her fills me with ice. Exactly what I need to do what needs to be done.
Shutting the door behind me, I clutch at the knob as I lean back on the hard wood. My heart painfully ticks in my chest, ready to explode with all the feelings balled up inside me.
Fire and ice. Two polar opposites, yet they feel the same. They burn and destroy. They can save and kill.
“Well?”
My eyes snap up at Benedict’s insolence. He’s either pushing for me to explode, or he’s forgotten who the fuck he’s talking to.
“The Russian.”
“It’s not your concern.” Standing, he does up the middle button of his designer suit, the deep charcoal not far off the colour of my trousers.
“You made him my concern the moment you sent Arabella for him.”
I see it in his eyes. He truly believes my tunnel vision has overlooked what I walked into. He’s so calm and sure of himself and my cool demeanour that he takes sturdy steps to where I’m standing, so close I can smell the smoky caramel in his breath from the Welsh whisky stocked in the wet bar.
My hands tighten around the knob, pulling as it cuts into my palms.
“Follow the rules, Christopher.”
“The rules are dead. The Russian is dead, and if you so much as breathe in my wife’s direction again…you will die too.”
“Don’t be a savage, son. Remember the hand that raised you. Remember who put you where you are. I’m not one for clichés, but you really should remember that the fall from grace is hard and perilous.”
Smiling, he takes a step back, casually checking the time on his bespoke, disgustingly expensive timepiece.
“Tomasz Vassily stays alive until he is no longer needed. Understand?” Directing himself to the globe bar by the small balcony, he pours himself another measure of whisky.
Sitting the crystal tumbler in his palm, he sniffs the liquor. He inhales deeply with a hum of appreciation, and as he tilts and rounds it in his hand, he says, “All great things need time. Patience. Fortitude. They rot and ferme
nt before they become something extraordinary. Something worthwhile and worthy of greatness.”
I am worthy, and I’ve proved it with blood and life. With the most heinous sacrifice of all.
“Spare me the bullshit, Benedict. You went too far. You used your own daughter to get what you wanted. You preyed on her vulnerability. You deliberately separated us to manipulate the situation to your goals. Patience would’ve told you to be a father. Fortitude would’ve had you hold her and strengthen her. You did neither of those things, and that is why you will never be worthy of greatness. It’s why Stanton has always beaten you.”
Laughing, he tips the entire dram of whisky into his mouth. Cool, calm, and collected. Yet, his actions give his demons away.
“Burns to be second fiddle, doesn’t it? To be the one in reserve. The just in case…” Letting go of the doorknob, I wander over to him. Without removing my gaze from his, I pull the vodka decanter from the chilled half of the globe and pour myself an overly generous measure. “He’s got another…what? Six maybe seven years left in him. Maybe longer. Walpole managed twenty years. You know how these things can drag. Look at your Liberal Gladstone—William managed twelve years.”
It’s the laugh that stems from deep in his eyes, soul-deep almost, that confirms Leo’s suspicions. Something is going on, and it runs much deeper than we suspect.
“Do you know what your grandfather always said to us?” he asks.
My heart goes from its steady pounding thrum to a violent race at the mention of my grandad. The ache and hunger for revenge inside me roar, and although I try to douse it with the contents of my glass, they gurgle their poisonous screams through it.
“Beware of the coyotes amongst wolves.”
Dropping the tumbler into the bar, he heads for the door.
“They’re weaker creatures, but common. Even in a pack, they’re out for themselves. But ultimately, they are still the prey, and eventually their intelligence is outwitted, and they are snuffed out by their own arrogance and unprecedented confidence.”
“What game are you playing?”
“It’s not a game, son,” he replies without looking back at me. Standing in front of Murphy, he waits for him to move out of his way.
He doesn’t move until I give him a nod of approval. Opening the door, he steps to the side, standing tall and looming over my father-in-law.
Benedict looks at him from top to toe before turning to me.
“We’re hunting.”
“Who?”
“Be a good cub and stay out of the way.” With a nod he walks out of the hotel apartment only to stop and turn and face me again. “Focus on your role.”
The ice that burned as vicious as a fire begins to melt, and all that are left are violent flames licking at my insides. Threatening to destroy every vestige of my controlled front.
“Congratulations by the way. You have full judicial backing. Seems last night went better than we could’ve hoped. All was not lost in the end.”
The moment he disappears, Murphy makes to exit the suite, closing the door behind him.
“Ryan.”
I sense his surprise at my use of his first name. We’ve always had a rule in our family— if a person is willing to give their life for yours, they become a part of your family. And as such, they are an equal.
Today, he proved his salt.
“Mr. Sinclair.”
“I need your phone.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your phone, please.”
Ryan Murphy is a couple of years older than me. His ash-blonde hair levels out the age and experience in his dark blue eyes. Like Casper, he served in the military. The two were shipped off to Syria at the same time. I can’t imagine the evils he’s seen, but there are glimpses of them in his vacant stares and fearless drive.
He holds his unlocked iPhone out to me, the ink on his arms just peeking out from under his white shirt.
“Thank you. We’re checking out. Make sure arrangements are made.”
“Where to?”
“Windermere.”
When I was a child, Dad always used to tell me that when I wasn’t invited or allowed to join my peers’ games that I should make my own. Seeing as I can’t join their hunt, it’s time to lead my own.
Dialling Leo’s number, I pour myself another drink. Shorter this time. Backing it all at once, I stack the tumbler on Benedict’s.
The moment Leo picks up, I dive in. “It’s me.”
“What’s this number? You’re lucky I picked up.”
“Ryan’s.” Making my way to the sofas, I sit on one of the mustard velvet armchairs. “Arabella’s using my phone.”
“Doesn’t she have her own?”
“Yeah, she does.”
“Then why—” Perceptive as always, he stops abruptly. “Shit. Is she okay? Are you?”
“Hunky-fucking-dory.” He doesn’t say anything to my acerbic reply.
We both remain quiet. Leo probably trying to figure out what to say like he always does. Always operating with the mentality that everything will be okay.
Flashes of our conversation at Cassie’s hospital bedside roll through my mind along with Benedict’s words.
And the conclusion right now is the same as it was six months ago.
Nothing is okay.
Neither will it be, not until comeuppance is had and graves are dug.
I’m done following rules. I’m done feeding every other fucker’s dreams. I’m done being a motherfucking pawn.
I’m the king, and it’s about time I checkmate this shit.
“Change of plans. We’re going north.”
Opening my MacBook, I type a quick group message to Casper and Freddie, including Leo on it.
Christopher: Time to hunt.
Chapter 26
Arabella
The phone feels so heavy and hot in my hands. I can’t stop looking at the photo, and at the same time I can’t bear to see it one more time. I want to hate Christopher for being so cruel as to keep it from me, and I want to hate him for being so cruel as to show it to me.
He’s given my pain a face. An existence.
God, I want to hate him.
I want to kill him.
I want to cut him open and watch him bleed.
But the want is pointless when my need for him trumps it all. My love for him goes beyond all this hate and misery. It’s tangled and woven with my grief, and although I needed time and space to crack and crumble, I need him to help me fix this. Because looking at this photo of our little girl in his hand…I feel the soul-searing pain his love has endured.
It’s my pain too.
Our pain.
And as such, we are the only ones that can make it just.
The way his thumb is blurred over her tiny leg, stroking and caring, it makes my heart squeeze painfully with relief and sorrow that he was there to comfort her and that I didn’t get to.
The knock at the door has me burrowing deeper onto the duvet, pressing the phone tighter to my chest.
A crack of light cuts through the carpet with Christopher’s unmistakable shadow silhouetting the floor. My heart hammers in my chest, pounding hot lava through my body, as his silent footsteps come closer. The crack of light gets thinner as the door behind him closes with the draft from the open windows, until darkness reigns again.
“Belles…” Murmuring as he sits at the foot of the bed, his hand squeezes one of my feet, nail raking the arch. I can’t help the whimper that escapes me as my skin pimples in a heated wave.
Time to hunt.
That was the message that sent his phone crazy. All the notifications I had to swipe away from the guys.
He’s going to leave me here alone.
I can’t let him do that.
I won’t let him leave me behind again.
This right is as much mine as his.
Before he has a chance to say anything, I wipe my tears as I sit up. “I want in.”
“No.” His reply
is resolute. Uninviting to contradiction.
“She was my daughter too.” He spins so fast towards me that the duvet pulls from under me and I have to claw at it in order to balance myself. “I didn’t get to hold her properly, but she was mine. I carried her. I hugged her with my body. I fed her…I felt her every move when it kept me up at night. When you touched me or spoke to me.” Fire starbursts in my chest and belly, but no tears come. I swallow every single fucker down as quickly as they prickle up my throat.
I will not give you reason to think I can’t handle this.
I keep repeating this as he glares at me.
“Absolutely not.”
“Please.” Holding the phone to my belly, I crawl to him on my knees. “You got to hold her in your arms, Christopher. You got to see her with your eyes. You felt her warmth. You heard her breaths. And I hate you for all of it. I hate you so much that it physically hurts.” Climbing onto his lap, my body is so hot and so raw that his own heat feels like an inferno. “I don’t want to hate you or envy you for giving our child all the things I couldn’t. So please…”
“Belles.”
A tremor moves through him when I take his hand and place it on my heart, my thumb stroking the cool metal and stone of his wedding ring. “What’s a marriage if we don’t stand together?”
The pounding of my heart stutters as I wait for him to call out my hypocrisy over all the things I’ve done. All the ways I’ve wronged him.
He never does.
His sting back never comes. Instead the pressure of the hand on my chest increases as his other goes to the small of my back, pulling me closer to his body as he pushes me back onto the bed.
His hard body crushes mine into the mattress. Teeth scraping up the column of my neck, he nips his way to my ear with deep, ragged breaths.
Scorch (Virtues & Lies Book 2) Page 19