The Catacombs (Cult 2)

Her eyes dropped. “I know you don’t give a shit about me, but I give a shit about you.” Her eyelashes stretched over her cheeks as she looked down, some of her hair falling forward past her shoulders. She looked up again, not an ounce of self-pity in her gaze. She was matter-of-fact. Straight to the point. Uncomplicated.

“Why?”

The question moved into her eyes.

“Because of the sex? Or because of the roof over your head?”

Now her eyes narrowed and her brow took on an angry furrow. “I don’t know what happened to you to make you like this…and I’m sorry that it happened…but I’m not the one who did it. I’m not the one who scarred you.”

“Answer my question.”

Her arms tightened over her chest, her head slightly cocked to the side. “I think that answer is obvious.”

“Not to me.”

She gave a subtle shake of her head, venomously disappointed. “Because of Claire. I love your daughter. I would die for her…literally. Why isn’t that enough for you to stop being an asshole? To let me in—”

“Why do I have to let you in at all? You’re the goddamn nanny—”

“I’m a hell of a lot more than that, and you know it.” The anger turned to raw, burning pain. “The three of us have been to hell and back—literally. We keep going around and around with this over and over again, and I don’t…” Her eyes dropped momentarily, as if a thought struck her right in the chest. When she looked at me again, I saw calm realization there, as if everything suddenly made sense. “I’m not just going to walk out on your daughter the way Beatrice did. I’m not going to abandon her. I’m not going to abandon you either.”

I held her gaze, stony.

“This is home to me now.”

The shrieking came back again, the screams louder than they were last time.

“So please, stop with the asshole thing. I care about you. You care about me. We’re a team. I had to take care of her by myself in that camp, and it’s nice to have someone take care of me now. I’m not ashamed to say that. I’m not ashamed to say that I need you to keep me sane. We’re like this weird, twisted—”

“Family.”

She turned silent, her breaths heavy. “Yes…a family.”

I stared at her expression as my words sank in.

“We’re bonded together for life. The three of us. I’m like Bartholomew, your right-hand man. But I’m a woman who likes to jump your bones sometimes. It’s not complicated…so don’t make it complicated.”

My eyes scanned her face for more information than she revealed, but there was nothing there. I was just the crutch that kept her on her feet, the bulletproof vest strapped to her chest, the gun in her hand. I was the fire in the snowstorm. I was the lone cabin in the woods. Nothing more. “Alright.”

Bartholomew sat in the back seat beside me, the glow of his phone illuminating up his face with a blue light. One elbow was propped against the window, his closed knuckles against his temple.

The gunfire was audible, the shootout hot and fast. It lasted for a minute, maybe two. But then the last shot was fired, and silence ensued.

Bartholomew typed on his phone as if he didn’t notice—or care.

I looked out my tinted window to the dark street, the glow of the Eiffel Tower far away in the distance.

Bartholomew slid his phone into his pocket and opened the door.

I took that as my cue and hopped out with him.

We walked together, both in jackets and boots, the pavement wet from the rain that hadn’t let up this season.

“I wonder who made it.”

He gave a shrug as he pulled his gun out of his pocket. He cocked it before carrying it at his side. “We’re about to find out.”

We crossed the pavement and moved through the hole in the fence before we approached the warehouse. Bodies of fallen men were scattered everywhere, rifles and handguns at their sides.

Our men were the victors—and they went around to grab all the ammunition.

We walked up to the locked doors, where they were already cutting through the bolt with a blowtorch.

Side by side, we waited. Bartholomew stuck his gun into the back of his jeans again before he hung his arms by his sides. His eyes scanned the area as he gave a sigh of boredom. “So.” He turned to me. “Had a change of heart yet?”

I met his gaze, my look cold.

He looked forward again. “That’s a no.”

I checked the bolt on the door. They were only halfway through.

“What did she say when you told her?”

Silence.

I felt his stare on the side of my face.

“You didn’t tell her.”

“She doesn’t need to know—”

“Because you think she’ll turn herself over to protect Claire.”

I turned to meet his gaze. “Her safety is my problem, not hers. She doesn’t need to know.”