I swallowed hard, picturing a younger version of the scarred man in front of me. “You want me to call you Roan?”
He captured my heart and soul with his look. “Yes. It would mean a lot to me.”
Fox suddenly moved forward.
My back straightened, stomach flurried. He was close, so close, his white-grey eyes staring mournfully into mine. “Please forgive me for what I’m about to tell you. But if you can’t…I understand.”
Tearful prickles raced up my spine and I couldn’t speak. I nodded, aching to hug him, offer solace in my arms. For two days I kept my distance, harbouring my anger, not wanting to be weak when my first duty was to Clara, but it was no use. I wanted to help this man. I couldn’t stop—just like I couldn’t stop my feelings for him.
Fox’s nostrils flared, his lips parted, and every part of me throbbed for every part of him. Even though Clara would never be safe around him, I had a hard time ignoring practicality in favour of my heart.
And my heart wanted Roan.
Desperately.
I didn’t just want him physically; I wanted him mentally, emotionally, spiritually. I wanted to own every part of him and trade his life for mine.
Clara broke our moment with a cringe worthy question. “You have so many weapons. Have you used them?” She stroked a huge sword that looked as if it should be stuck in a rock in some storybook myth. Her voice was faint, but her question turned Fox to a statue. “Have you killed people before? Did they deserve it?”
Every question sent a dagger into my heart. Who knew that a kid with no life experience could have such perception? She read everyone like a picture book. All our sins and secrets might as well be tattooed on our foreheads.
Fox closed his eyes, an expression of deep regret and pain etched his features. Finally he opened them again. “I wish I didn’t have to answer your question, but I promised myself I would tell the truth.” Sighing, he added, “I’ve taken lives before. Some bad. Some deserving. But most were kind and gentle and didn’t deserve to die.” He looked up, freezing me in his stare. “But I didn’t do it willingly. You have to believe me.”
I couldn’t catch a proper breath. The room closed in, swords and daggers loomed like nightmares, filling my head with horror.
Clara moved closer to Fox and it wasn’t until she put a hand on his leg that I noticed she clutched a tiny dagger with an intricate gem inlaid in the hilt. Fox sucked in a breath at her touch, but didn’t move.
I backed toward a shelf, blindly groping for a blade just in case.
With ease and brittle gentleness, he pried Clara’s fingers from around the dagger before placing it back on a shelf. “I don’t think your mother would want you playing with knifes.” He shot me a look. “How about we get out of here? You’ve seen enough.”
Clara shook her head, her eyes never leaving the pretty ruby inlaid dagger. “I don’t want to play with them. I want to make them. They’re so pretty and shiny, and I want to know how. Can you show me? Please? Can I have that?” She pointed at the knife.
“You’re not having a knife, Clara. No matter how much you beg.” I glared my ‘do-not-mess-with-me scowl.’
Fox didn’t smile. His face remained serious as he said, “Maybe when you’re older I can teach you. You should only have a blade if you know how to use it. It’s dangerous to wield something you don’t understand.”
I balled my hands, fighting the painful squeeze on my heart at the thought of Clara growing up. I wanted that to happen. So much.
Clara moved to the other side of the room, brushing her fingers along a particular sword that’d been polished until the blade turned into a mirror. Her delicate features bounced back, contorted by the shape of the metal. “I suppose I can wait. But don’t be too long.” Her eyes darted up and latched onto mine with intelligence far beyond her years. “Being allergic to air is hard. I don’t think I have too much time.”
My knees buckled and the heavy shroud of faintness almost stole my sanity.
A strangled noise sounded low in my chest, and Fox looked up to glare at me. How did she know? Did she sense her lifespan would be shorter than most?
How does she know?
Tears wobbled in my eyes at the thought of her lying in bed at night afraid and alone. She never asked about her coughing fits, asthma attacks, or constant lung infections, never once questioning what it meant, and why she was different from other kids.
Ignoring Fox’s confused and angry glower, I held my hand out for Clara to come to me. Dropping to her height, I whispered in her ear, “I love you so incredibly much. You’d talk to me if something was worrying you. Wouldn’t you?”
She nodded, rolling her eyes. “Of course. But nothing’s worrying me, so I’m all hunky-dory. Can Roan tell his story now?”
I wanted to scream. To demand she tell me why she thought she had less time. I wanted to know her every thought and conclusion, but I forced my fingers to unclamp around her shoulders and breathed deep.
I couldn’t crush her enthusiasm, but didn’t know if I had the reserves to listen to such a dark and sorrow-filled story Fox obviously had to share. Not now.
Fox seethed with temper; his eyes burned a hole into mine. The energy in the small room was full of questions. He heard truth in the cryptic comment from Clara. His perception was too highly tuned. But that made sense now. After seeing his workshop, weapons, and finding out he killed people; he transformed into more hunter than man in my eyes. Of course, he would have the instincts of a true predator—after all, they relied on their instincts to survive.
I looked up, shaking my head. I’ll tell you, but not yet.
I hoped to avoid the subject to spare him. I hoped to avoid it, because I wasn’t strong enough to voice it. If I told another person, it made it real. I didn’t want to make it real.
Fox scowled and came toward me. Grasping my elbow, he lowered his head to mine. His breath sent shivers down my back as he whispered harshly, “Be prepared to talk after this, Hazel. I’m done being kept in the dark. I want to know. And you’re going to tell me every single thing you’ve been keeping secret.”
Before I could reply, he left the vault and disappeared.
My heart couldn’t calm down at the furious restraint in his voice. He was pissed and no way in hell did I want to deal with a pissed off Fox.
Clara and I followed, hanging back as Fox spent a few minutes dragging dinged up leather chairs toward the central fireplace. Grabbing a poker, he viciously stabbed the coal embers until happy yellow and orange flames came to life.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sucked in a heavy breath before deliberately shedding his anger and re-centring himself.
Holding out his hand, he ordered, “Come here.”
My heart couldn’t cope; I shuffled after Clara toward one of the chairs and sat heavily into the soft, springy cushion. Clara lost her fierce independence and instead of taking the other chair, she plopped onto my knee and snuggled. Together we sank into the leather, looking up at Fox. His scarred cheek danced with firelight; his body echoed with pain. Pain given to him by his past. Pain given to him by telling the truth.
His eyes locked with mine, and I didn’t know what he searched for. Acceptance, understanding, willingness to listen and not judge until the end? I didn’t know, but at least he no longer looked as if he wanted to tear me apart for keeping secrets from him. For now Clara’s impending demise was safe.
He held up his hands, bracing them like a traffic warden, displaying fleshy palms and callused fingers. “See that? The marks directly in the centre?” He leaned forward, so his hands were only a foot away from our faces.
Clara spotted the greenish-grey lines before me. “Yep. They’re faded. Do they mean something?” Her voice was timid and I cuddled her closer.
Fox curled his lip, bringing his hands back to him, glaring hatefully at them. “Invisible, impenetrable, invincible.”
The hair on the nape of my neck sprang up as he added in a low timbre voice
, “Nevidimyy, nepronitsayemyy, nepobedimyy.”
He looked up, eyes glinting with remembered hatred. “The three things a Ghost must be. I’ve scrubbed my hands with abrasives; spent hours scouring them with sand to remove their trace, to forget, but they never leave, just like the conditioning will never leave.”
His voice turned inward, full of memories, echoing with agony. “That’s all we were. Ghosts to do their bidding and obey their every request. We were told to kill and we did. We were told every murder would slowly turn us immortal like gods. And just like gods, we had power. We were the law and nothing could touch us.”
He shook his head violently. “But that was all a lie. We were just humans, tortured within an inch of our psyche to become what they wanted us to be. A mindless machine for hire. Mercenaries of the highest order who anyone could buy to complete a task.”
His body shuddered, bowing his head. His hands clenched and every turmoil he felt lashed at me, bleeding me dry. He battled so deep, suffered so much, sucked backward where nightmares still ruled.
Minutes passed while Fox stood motionless, only his lips moving soundlessly. I’d seen a few people have flashbacks, their present overcome by an overpowering memory. Clara squirmed on my lap, her little body tensing with every minute.
As sudden as the flashback took him it was over. He looked up, blinking once. He rolled his shoulders. “Sorry.”
Clara shifted. “What were you thinking about?” Her warm, comforting weight helped keep my panic at bay, retaining my utter horror for the pain Fox had lived through.
“I was thinking about a little boy. You remind me of him so much, Clara. He was bright, funny, brave. His name was Vasily—it means kingly, of royal descent. He was nine when he died.”
Clara sighed. “I’m sorry. I like his name. What does yours mean?”
Fox smiled. “It means redhead, even though my hair turned darker as I grew older. A false name really.”
“I like it better than Ghost or Fox. I don’t believe in ghosts and you’re not see-through and can’t fly, so that’s just stupid. Those bad men who made you do bad things know nothing.”
I smothered a chuckle under my breath. I didn’t mean to laugh—the tension in the room had no space for humour—but Fox cracked a smile, too. Some of the overwound tension left his body. “You’re right. I’m not a Ghost. Not anymore. I’m just a man searching for a way to be human again.”
My heart squeezed to death.
Clara leaned back into me, her dark eyes riveted on the licking flames dancing over Fox’s face. “You may have killed, but you aren’t a bad man.”
Fox froze, drowning in her gaze. “What makes you say that?”
She broke eye contact, kicking her feet, looking anywhere but at him. “Because only bad men are lonely because no one can love them.” Her little lungs strained, sucking in courage. She burst out, “And I love you, so you can’t be a bad man otherwise how could I love you? I would know. I would be able to tell you were naughty, and I wouldn’t want to love someone like that.”
Fox went from standing straight and tall to looking ancient and frail. He sucked in a heavy breath, and for the briefest of moments, moisture filled his eyes. But then it was gone, and the fragility was replaced with power once again.
His throat worked hard. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll start the story now.” Gripping the hem of his black t-shirt, he tore it over his head.
What in the living daylights is he doing?
I squeezed Clara so hard she squeaked. For weeks I’d wanted to see Fox naked. I’d wanted to understand what he kept hidden. But now he stood before me and I wanted to shut my eyes.
He didn’t need to verbalize his story. It lived in his skin, engraved into muscles, and imprinted into flesh.
Balling the t-shirt, he threw it away.
My eyes were transfixed by his ripped muscles. They were too defined, too angry, too lacking nutrients and a healthy layer of fat. Every sinew, every vein, every thread and bunch of muscle seethed beneath the thin membrane of skin.
My fingers ached to touch him, to run along the long swooping scar on his rib cage and whisper over the small uniformed marks just below his collarbone. There were circular scars and oblong scars, square scars and scars that looked as if they still retained gravel and dirt from however they hurt him.
His stomach was so toned every ridge looked too harsh, too unforgiving to cuddle or sleep against. He didn’t look man. He looked like stone. Forged from granite and marble, carved from obsidian and slate.
“Fox…I—” My voice deserted me. A flare of connection and lust sprang to a fever pitch between us. Fox tensed, highlighting yet more scars in the light of the fire.
“Now you know why I don’t like for people to see.”
Clara stayed mute on my lap, either unimpressed by the show of male brokenness, or overwhelmed by the violence living on his skin. I shouldn’t allow this. I should take her far away, so she didn’t have to live with such atrocities in her young mind.
But she knew things she shouldn’t know. She knew her time was limited. She acted far beyond her age, yet she dealt with everything with such fine edged decorum and sensibility.
Tears tracked silently down my cheeks for both Fox and Clara. Two people who connected and were drawn to each other; two people who would destroy each other.
“I don’t want people to know. I don’t want people to guess my story, or display my crimes. Every day I try to forget, but every day I remember thanks to a body that will never erase or heal. But if you want to know, I will tell you the story behind every mark and cut. I’ve never forgotten—the memories are vivid and never ending in my head.” His voice dabbled with self-hatred and pleading.
I shook my head. I never wanted to know. I thought I did. I thought I wanted to uncover his secrets, but I couldn’t make him live through his past—not while it lived so deeply on his skin in the present.
Clara had no such scruples.
Her little hand darted up, pointing to a scar above his protruding hip bone. “That looks like a ce—cee—caesarean scar. Mummy has one, and she said she loves it because it reminds her of me.” She swirled in my arms to plant a gentle kiss on my cheek. “I didn’t mean to scar you, you know.”
I gathered her close, squeezing hard. “I love that scar. I’m thankful for it every day as it brought you into my life.” She sighed and squirmed closer while looking up at Fox.
Dropping his eyes, he traced the scar with a finger. “This is from a knife similar to the one you picked up. It was a test—weeding out the recruits who would operate in intense pain compared to those who couldn’t.”
My hands wanted to slam over Clara’s ears. I shot Fox a warning look. “Perhaps we’ve had enough story-time for one day.” I shot another message with my eyes. Stop it. You’ll scare her. She doesn’t need to know details.
Fox nodded. “We’ll avoid the scars for now. I’ll tell you the story of this.” Sucking in a breath, he turned away from us.
My mouth fell open, jaw slack in shock. If I thought his chest was impressive with its relic of memories, his back was a piece of parchment with history inked into every crevice.
Clara bounced off my lap, tearing my arms off her. “Wow.” She moved forward, transfixed on his tattooed back. The golden hue of licking flames highlighted the ridges of his muscles and flickered over the silver of his scars like some expensive imbedded jewellery. “What happened to you?” Clara leaned forward, childlike wonder shining bright in her eyes.
“Life happened to me, little one.”
I didn’t know if I wanted to laugh or cry. In one move, Fox gave everything that he was. He bared his soul; he dropped every barrier, so we could understand him better.
I hated myself in that moment for keeping so much from him. For judging him. For not understanding or granting more compassion.
His tattoo wasn’t something he wore with pride. It wasn’t an achievement or earned. It was a plain message of ownership. Every
design spoke of proprietorship and control.
My heart swelled for this broken warrior. My eyes burned with tears.
Looking over his shoulder, he murmured, “Ready for your story now?”
Clara nodded, dumfounded, eyes flittering all over his inked back. Fox bent his knees and crashed to the floor, presenting himself at my feet. Clara moved closer, breathing hard. “Can I—I want to—”
Fox clenched his fists, digging them into his thighs. “You can. I’ll tell you which to touch, and I’ll tell you the story.”
A large smile broke her face, then she frowned. “Is it all sad? I don’t know if I want to listen to something all sad.”
Fox laughed softly. “Life is sad, little one. It’s full of heartache and bittersweet hope, but you are my happy ending. You are my happiness, so remember that when I tell you.”
Clara reached out to touch.
My throat dried to a husk as Fox muttered, “Go slowly. Start at the top.”
My muscles were ready to spurn forth and snatch my daughter away. This was the worst possible place for her to touch him. Weapons lurked in every corner, a fire billowed beside them. He could bludgeon her and burn all evidence in a matter of moments.
Clara nodded, her fingers trembled as she gently laid a hand on the base of his neck where a Celtic-like knot had been drawn.
Fox said, “That one—that’s the symbol of never-ending battle.” He stopped, clearing his throat. “Once upon a time, a boy who was born to royal blood strayed too far from home. He didn’t listen to his mother’s warnings and thought he knew best. Their castle rested on the edge of a mystical forest where bears and wolves played in the snow. The little boy explored for hours, searching for them, but he didn’t find any bears or wolves. But he did find something else.”
Clara dropped her hand to the next tattoo, willing Roan to continue.
Roan.
I’d slipped and thought of him by his first name.