But I’m not. It’s getting worse, I need help—
“You were always a fighter, Shane.” He stops, shoves his hands into his pockets, glances outside the French door. “You never stopped fighting. I shouldn’t forget that.”
I growl at that and push off the wall, kick at the side of the desk. “Yeah, what the fuck ever.” I lay down, took it like a good bitch. Begged for them to stop the pain, to let me go. “Fucking bullshit.”
“Says the guy who put his abusers out of fucking commission more than once.”
I freeze in the act of drawing my leg back for another kick. “What?”
He’s looking at me, one damn brow raised. “You gave Christoph that scar under his eye. He never forgave you for that. I’m pretty damn sure he hurt you worse after that, but on the other hand… I’m also pretty damn sure knowing you did it to him kept you sane.”
Sane. Yeah, right.
And it makes no difference, because I can’t fucking remember any of this.
“That’s how you got your scar, too. You used to scratch at it at first, make it bleed, until the nurse had it taped so tightly you couldn’t anymore. I thought…” He gives his head a tiny shake. “Never mind what I thought.”
I look down at my hands, at my forearms beneath the rolled up sleeves. What scar? Lots of scars to pick from. Two stand out on my left arm—the thick one along the vein, and the smaller one crisscrossing it.
That one, the smaller one, reminds me of a snake, and a knife. A nightmare. I lift my hand, staring at it. “I can’t remember.”
Why can’t I remember? And why do I feel that this thin scar is more important that the ones that almost ended my life?
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I can’t remember how I got this scar.”
He approaches me in two swift strides. “The hell you say.” He searches my face, his a slightly distorted mirror, and grabs my shoulder. “You don’t remember? Your memory’s full of all the monsters and blood and goddamn pain, but you can’t remember fighting back?”
I jerk out of his hold. “Why do you sound so shocked? My mind’s fucking broken, man. Half the time I don’t know what’s real and what’s not.” I glance down at my scars, then tug the sleeve down, bend over.
Christ, I want Cassie with me. God, I wish I could wrap myself around her, bury my face in her sweet-smelling hair right now.
“Your mind’s not broken, cuz,” Seth says, watching me intently, leaning over me. “You’re strong. Stronger than I ever was. I’m only concerned when it comes to Cassie, because
…”
“Because?” I straighten, and he takes a step back. “Told you, I don’t need a nanny.”
His eyes harden. “Because she was crying, and because she told me not long ago that she’d do anything for you, but you know what? Suit yourself, cuz. Looks like you don’t need anybody’s help after all.”
Turning on his heel, he storms out of the room, and I’m left gaping at the spot where he’d stood a second ago.
***
By now, my head is throbbing like an open wound, my pulse kicking against the sides of my skull and behind my eyes. As I stagger back into the party, I’m not quite sure what I need—an Advil, a shot of Scotch, or to take an axe to my head until the fucking throbbing stops. Until everything fades and leaves me in peace.
Cassie was crying.
I see a table laden with bottles and glasses and head that way, since no Advil or axes seem to be readily available.
Why was she crying? Assuming that Seth didn’t make that up—but why would he?—then she was upset. By Jesse’s accusations? By my claim to be together? What the fuck was the issue?
And why does it make me wanna go find her, check she’s okay?
Cursing under my breath, I reach the table and ignore the guy pouring the drinks, grabbing the bottle of whatever it is from his hands and shove my way through the people. I don’t know where Cassie is, or Seth, or anyone for that matter, but I can’t stop myself from looking.
Unscrewing the cap of my trophy—brandy, as it turns out—I take a swig and briefly consider going out, finding a quiet corner in the garden to get drunk. I’d freeze my ass off, but if I get drunk enough, it shouldn’t matter.