The way she blinked in sadness, watching my grief unabashedly. Accepting the broken version of who I was even after I’d threatened the life of her sister.
She saw me at the weakest point of my life and that simple fact spreads unease through me like poison ivy. My weakness is very real. Most would argue against that statement, but it’s true. It’s small. But it’s there, and it scares the living fuck out of me. My very reason to keep it buried. It’s the sliver of my soul I show to no one. Why would I? Weakness only offers your enemies a hand-drawn map of how to undermine you. It’s your defeat handed over on a silver platter. Everything that is most important to you offered like a gift you’ve tied neatly with the bow of your surrender.
I recall the way she gently cleaned the blood off Mira’s face in mourning. The care she took in doing so. I hated being grateful for her at that moment. I hated that she kept her cool as I fell down a tunnel of unimaginable grief.
Camryn Rein is the ultimate reminder of one of the worst moments of my life. And she’s now my greatest foe, whether she knows it or not.
Opening the door, I lean against it in silence, forcing my thoughts to wash away, refusing to let her see my inner turmoil.
Attitude oozes from her small frame; forced scowl, popped hip, not complete without a singular brow lifted in distaste.
Her eyes track my naked torso, skating along the divots of muscle still twitching from use. They widen as they duck down to the band of my gray sweats, her will strong enough to stop them from dropping to my crotch. My cock is thickening by the second, a direct result of the blood pumping through my veins from my workout and nothing to do with the snarky bitch standing at my door.
“You gonna let me in? Or are you gonna make me smell your sweaty ass for longer than necessary?”
Lies. That flash of want in her eyes enough to tell me that she may hate me, but she wouldn’t be averse to licking the sweat from my torso either.
I step from the door without speaking. She ain’t welcome, and it’s best she knows that from the get-go.
Stepping in after me, her feet pause as her stare falls to the very spot Mira took her last breath. Looking at the floor, you couldn’t tell life was stolen in that very place. It’s like brand new, scrubbed clean of any visible reminders. But her eyes fall to the spot in horror, as though Mira’s body remains, lifeless and bloodied.
“Let’s get this done. Bathroom or kitchen?” I pull her from her haunted thoughts.
“Couch is fine.” She moves toward it, offering Mira’s ghost a wide berth.
She notices I do the same, her eyes blinking in sadness before she turns away.
“I could’a had a doctor do this.” I drop to the couch, waiting impatiently for her to hurry up and leave my home.
“Would you have?” she challenges.
“No,” I answer honestly. “Easy enough to just pull ‘em out myself.”
She exhales heavily, her minty breath hitting me in the face. “You’re so... ugh... I don’t even have words.”
“Handsome. Charming. Addictive.”
She stops, dropping her hands to her side, a grimace on her face. “Please stop.”
I attempt to hide my smirk but fail.
Shaking her head, she steps closer to me. “Stay still,” she murmurs.
She smells good. A sweet citrus mixed with coffee, the sugary bitterness of her scent not at all different to her personality.
I frown, annoyed that I noticed.
Her hands are soft, gentle in the way they move along my skin. A slight tug, a quiet snip, a gentle pull and she drops the discarded suture into an open tissue beside me. She does this until all the stitches are removed, not speaking a single word.
Dabbing the wound with a strong-smelling antiseptic, I watch her eyes narrow over the injury. “It’s healed well,” she says to herself, pleased with her handiwork. “I’ll pop some adhesive strips across it to keep it from reopening. You’ll just need to replace them, I’ll leave you some.”
She waits for my nod of confirmation, which I offer in one quick movement.
“They come off by themselves, don’t rip at them,” she instructs. “Keep the wound clean.” She steps back. “And dry. So, like, this”—she gestures to my body—“is a no. Just chill out on the excessive physical exertion for a few days. No swimming either.”
I nod again, letting her know I’ve heard her.
“Dominic having any luck finding the cunt you affectionately call mom?”
Her hands pause halfway inside her bag. “I didn’t realize he was looking for her,” she lies, zipping her bag up.
I scowl, the adhesive strip stuck to my face pulling with the movement.
Deceit is the most damaging of all sins. The act of misrepresenting is as lethal as murder, for the simple fact that everyone has the stomach for it. Give me a single person in this world that hasn’t lied, cheated, or distorted the truth and you’d be guilty of that exact crime. A simple lie can be the sole cause of catastrophe. It’s the very tip of a pyramid that breaks everything beneath it. Pain, suffering, heartache; they’re all casualties of an untruth unraveling. It takes no prisoners, maiming everyone in its path.
I narrow my eyes and she straightens her shoulders, meeting my scornful gaze.
We both know she’s lying and she’s caught between holding onto her lie and letting it go.
“Not that I know of,” she eventually answers on a reluctant sigh. “But that means less than nothing, he wouldn’t tell me if he were. You’d have a better chance of getting information like that from him.”
I stand.
“Are you looking for her, too?”
I consider ignoring her, showing her out without another word. I might hate lying, but I’m not against refusing to engage.
“Yes.” I shock myself by speaking.
It’s her turn to nod, a quick up and down movement as she moves toward my door without instruction. “What will you do when you find her?”
Camryn is no stranger to grief, to pain, to the fucked up reality this world has to offer. It’s worn like a shield. A giant barbed wire fence warning people to back the fuck off.
“Best you don’t know.”
A dismissive shrug. “Make her pay,” she shocks me by saying quietly, her hand to the door. “Sarah never gave us a second thought,” she explains unnecessarily. “She couldn’t give two fucks about me or Codi. She’s as good as dead to me anyway.”
Pausing at my front door, she eyes me cautiously. “I hate you,” she confesses emotionlessly. “But I hope you find her before my dad does. He has too much goodness inside of him. I hope that I’m right in assuming you have none.”
I pick up my phone as she closes the door softly behind her, unperturbed by her opinion of me. She’s right. No point denying it to her or myself.
“Roc,” Raid greets.
“Tell me you found her?”
“Sarah?” he clarifies and I grunt in affirmation, pissed off at needing to spell it out.
“Dude. She’s a fucking ghost. Who knew the drunk wife of a career criminal would be so in the know?”
“Bitch is smarter than everyone gives her credit for,” I grit out. “She was fucking Marcus for decades, hid his kid... she was part of a plan to kill my mother and no one had a fucking clue.”