Raze (Scarred Souls 1)

Raze’s eyebrows furrowed, and I could see he was fighting to remember. When a black look came across his face, his mouth tightened and he said, “I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything but death, violence, pain and…”

My breathing came short when I thought of how he was going to take me. He was going to…

Shuffling closer to Raze, until we touched skin to skin, I threaded my fingers through his hair and asked, “Why were you going to take me from behind… like that? Did… did…?” I stopped talking, unable to ask the obvious question. There had to be an explanation, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear it.

Raze’s brown eyes widened and he dipped his chin, hiding his head from view. He was such an enigmatic hulk of man, but at that question, his face clouded over like a storm. His position became fetal.

“Raze…” I said, choking on a sudden rush of sadness as he slowly lifted his head.

“I remember the first time one of them came into my cell. He was big, and I’d just been beaten with a bat. I couldn’t move, but I watched him walk toward me, untying his belt and pulling down his zipper. I remember being pushed onto my stomach. Then I remember pain. Pain like nothing I’d felt before. Then all I can remember is blocking everything out. Blocking those cunts out every time they came into my cell, until I was too big for them to control, too big and dangerous for them to fuck.”

Without him knowing, his hand had gripped mine and he was squeezing it like I was giving him strength to continue, like he was drawing the courage and the strength from me to talk about these horrific rapes. I could barely see through the torrent of tears falling down my cheeks, trying to think of ways to make everything better for him.

“Raze, oh my God,” I cried and pressed my forehead to his, devastated this had been part of his life in the Gulag.

He said nothing in response, but his grip on my hand didn’t loosen. I guessed it was the first time in years he had been comforted. Of course, I had heard of conditions in Russian-owned underground prisons, but what I’d heard didn’t compare to what Raze had revealed.

“How old were you?” I asked, peppering kisses down his cold, stubbled cheeks.

Raze clenched my hair in his hands and said, “I… I don’t know. It’s hard to know my age. None of us ever had birthdays.”

Regaining some composure, not wishing to drown him with my suspicions, I continued. “And they made you fight? To the death? As a child?”

Raze nodded his head once, gaze blanking out, taking him off somewhere else. “Yes. They ran a gambling ring. Just like this one.”

Nausea built in my stomach as he compared The Dungeon to the Gulag. At least I had the comfort of knowing we didn’t imprison and serially abuse kids, forcing them to fight until the death.

“Raze, I don’t know what to say. I’m devastated for you,” I said, feeling inadequate—no, pathetic.

Raze gripped the back of my head and pulled me down and timidly kissed me. I was immediately lost to his familiar kiss.

Raze broke away and stared at me. “There was a breakout. Some fighters got free and murdered the night guards. There were always less guards at nighttime. The rest of the prisoners rioted and started fleeing.”

“How did you get free?”

Raze’s lip hooked into a smirk. “362.”

“362?” I questioned, confused.

“362. Another fighter, the only one I ever spoke to.” The tone of his voice had changed.

“He was your friend,” I surmised.

Raze’s half smile reverted to an impassive expression.

“Friend?” he asked as if he were savoring the sound of the word on his tongue.

My heart bruised just that little bit more. He had no idea what a friend was.

“Yes, your friend. You spoke with him, spent time with him. Confided in him… Liked him?”

“I trained with him. He helped me adjust to life in the Gulag. Taught me how to block things out. We would never fight. We were the Gulag’s two best fighters. When the riot happened, he freed me. Most of the others would never have dared approach me. They were too scared of me. But not him.”

A smile pulled on my lips, and I asked, “And where is he now? Did you come together to New York?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know where he went. West somewhere. We all just ran.”

Raze stared and stared at me. I assumed I’d pushed too far for one night. Color had drained from his cheeks and his body sagged. Feeling warmth spread in my chest at his devoted attention, I pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Raze’s expression softened. His finger landed on my neck and traveled down to my breast. I closed my eyes, once again cherishing his touch.

“I want to touch you,” he said. His finger stopped and he looked into my eyes.

Taking my hand, I brushed my finger over his left eye, the one with that smudge of blue.

Biting my lip, I mustered the courage to ask, “Have you noticed that your left eye has a smudge of blue amongst the brown?”

Raze studied me, and his hand lifted to touch his eye, his eyebrows pulled down. I held my breath, waiting for what he had to say. And then hope bloomed within me when his head tilted to the side in confusion and his full lips pursed.

“We match,” he rasped out and narrowed his eyes, observing the color of my eyes. “Your blue is the same color in my left eye.”

My bottom lip trembled. I could no longer hold back the sob choking my throat. Raze would have no idea why I was crying. How could he know that saying those two words—“we match”—could, in tandem, inspire such high hopes and such deep sorrow within me.