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“He was a unique guy. Born and bred in the Deep South, his family lived on a rambling farm that harvests corn.”
I nod, giving him space to tell the story.
“Not sure you’ve had much to do with Henri. He keeps to himself.” Henri’s a quiet, unassuming employee of Cain’s. He was the man that opened the door for me the day I first came here. I knew I detected a Southern accent.
“I’ve seen him, but we’ve never really even talked beyond work at all.”
“He keeps to himself. Henri was Court’s youngest brother.”
“Oh wow.”
“Court was the father I never had, Violet.”
I didn’t see that coming.
I gently stroke his shoulder. Keeping him with me. “Oh? How so?”
His voice takes on a huskier edge, reminiscing. “He took me under his wing. Showed me how to shoot, showed me how to protect the people under my care. He was the oldest of seven, raised to be a man of honor, and he taught me everything he knew.”
“Well, that explains a lot.”
He huffs out a laugh as he runs his fingers through my hair in a rhythmic motion, up and down, up and down, as if it soothes him. Maybe it does.
“Court was killed by friendly fire.” My heart aches. Accidental death like that is so tragic, I can’t imagine how it feels for the people who knew him or the people responsible for his death. “I was the one who found him. He bled out while I held him, waiting for emergency crews to respond.”
“Oh, Cain.” I’ve been through brutally painful times, but something like this makes me hurt for him.
“And before the rescue crews could find us, I was taken hostage. I took his dog tags just before they took his body and me, alive.”
I put two and two together.
“And that’s how you got the scars on your back.” I knew it was some kind of torture or punishment he’d endured.
“Yeah.”
“Let me see them.”
He stills for a moment, before he lets me slide off of him. The bed’s huge, a king-sized monstrosity as big as the old apartment I rented, so he rolls over with ease. He places his arms above his head, spreading his muscled, scarred back for me. My eyes have adjusted to the dim lighting in the room, moonlight lighting up the silvery-white scars that crisscross his back.
“Brutal,” I whisper, my own body clenching at the scars that mimic mine. I bend, close my eyes, and kiss each scar that lines his back.
He lets me. My throat tightens.
“Don’t tell me where your scars came from. Not tonight, Violet.”
I still. Why doesn’t he want to know? A part of me’s relieved, because I’m not in the mood to relive any of those events.
“I won’t. I don’t want to talk about it myself yet. But can I ask you why?”
He rolls back over, reaches for me, then drags me to his chest again. His eyes are fire, giving me a glimpse of the inferno that rages inside him. Sometimes, he tames the fire. Sometimes, he hides it. But it’s never fully quenched.
“Because when I find out who gave you those scars, I will hunt them down. I will make them pay. I want to be fully prepared, and tonight’s not the night for that.”
I’d smile, but he isn’t joking.
I’m falling in love with the man they call The Executioner. I didn’t come here by accident.
“Alright, then,” I whisper.
