Destroyed

15

Hazel

The day I told the father of my child about Clara, I walked away bleeding and scarred.

Instead of the swarmy, smooth ways that made me spread my legs for him, he glared as if I were scum.

He called me a whore, a slut, a gold-digging bitch.

I didn’t know he had rich parents, or that he stood to inherit a substantial empire. We’d met on the streets, hanging around fast food chains. I thought he was an orphan—like me. Turned out he liked to dabble in darkness before going home to his perfect bed. It wasn’t until I stalked him to his house that I found out the truth.

His parents heard us screaming; his dad shoved me out the front door and straight into a large flower pot. The rose bush sliced the delicate skin below my eye with its angry thorns.

Blood dripped, smearing my one and only t-shirt, and I knew I never wanted anything to do with them.

The baby was mine.

Ever since that day, Clara was mine completely. I wasn’t good at sharing, but Roan Fox gave me no choice.

He fell in love with my child with a freaky single-minded determination that scared me more than his underlying temper and violence.

He looked at Clara as if she held the answer to all his problems.

But he didn’t know.

He didn’t know that one day soon she’d be gone.

The day that happened, his life would be over, and my heart would break, and I would give him back his blue pill.

The day Clara died, she would take both of us.

It was inevitable.

A story.

There were good stories, bad stories, tragedies, and happily ever afters. Whatever Fox wanted to tell Clara, I doubted it would be fluffy unicorns and sunshine.

I wanted to end this—all of it. I couldn’t stand my heart breaking every damn day. I couldn’t stand lying in bed thinking about Fox and fighting a never-ending war of hating him for making me feel, and despising him for keeping me hostage.

I’d been prepared to walk. I couldn’t sacrifice myself for a man who suffered more demons than the devil himself. I’d been through too much to let him hurt me again.

But then he saw Clara.

He fell in love with Clara.

He stole Clara, and she was no longer mine.

The slow burn of rage hadn’t left since he fell so obsessively in love with her. I wanted to sneak out the moment he’d gone to bed and leave—but when I took Clara’s hand and dragged her down the driveway, it was as if an invisible chain tethered me. Pulling me back, making me stay.

It wasn’t obligation or about the money anymore. By falling for Clara, he’d proven he had a heart. He proved he was a man—deep inside, and as much as I wanted to hate him, I couldn’t.

Not when he doted upon my own flesh and blood; cooked her food, cut the crusts off her sandwiches, and jumped to her every demand. He became human in my eyes and that made me want to hate him more.

But hate was an emotion that demanded limitless energy. I lost the will to stoke my rage and fan my flames of anger. After all, didn’t everyone deserve happiness?

Even men who’d killed. If they repented and acknowledged their sins, wasn’t it my job as a human being to help him on the road to recovery?

At the cost of Clara?

No, at the cost of him. It would be Fox who would suffer—not Clara. She was too bold, too well loved and strong, too educated about the world to have long-term effects from Fox. But him? He wouldn’t survive her.

And that turned my hate into a sadness, more heavy and all-consuming than ever before. By letting them grow close, I was destroying both of them.

I didn’t seem to exist to either Fox or Clara as he picked himself off the floor and stalked toward the exit. He didn’t come back to collect me, or offer his hand to Clara. His body was locked down and untouchable.

“Hey, wait for me.” Clara shot out of my arms and trotted after him like a perfect puppy. I, on the other hand, trailed after them like a zombie whose world had just collapsed.

Fox led us down the corridor where the high-noon sun beamed through the glass ceiling. The heat warmed my shoulders and top of my head as we climbed down a flight of stairs to the main foyer. We headed along another hallway toward the back of the property before heading deeper downstairs, trading sunlight for shadows.

All the stupid hope I’d had that Fox might’ve broken through his no touching issues had been dashed into dust thanks to what happened in his office. He was still the same. Still haunted. Still ruined.

I thought my heart would never find a natural equilibrium again.

My skin pricked with goosebumps, and I breathed shallowly. I hadn’t been in this part of the house, and my limbs throbbed with adrenaline. I kept an ever watchful eye on Clara, poised to grab her just in case anything went wrong.

I want a weapon.

The thought popped into my head as Fox stopped outside a massive medieval door with a large lock. Engraved in the wood, looking as if someone took a sharp blade and carved with no finesse, were three lines. III.

It didn’t look like it belonged in this century. Just like the house constructed around it, there was something sinister and evil—something inhabitable.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up as Fox inserted a key and pushed open the door. The only door without a keypad lock.

He looked back, his grey-white eyes delving into mine. You can leave if you want. His gaze screamed the message glowing with pain.

I wanted to take him up on the offer. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t think I would ever be ready for what he wanted to show me.

I couldn’t give him a reply—either silent or verbal. My thoughts waged with each other, terrified at knowing, horrified at what he had to say. But mostly petrified of the decision I would have to make.

Clara darted inside—no fear or residual surprise with what happened in his office. A brief exclamation of amazement escaped her, followed by a delighted giggle. “It’s like a cave. No, it’s like a prison cell.” She turned to me. “Remember? Those pictures you showed me of those poor people in Tower of London for stealing the crown and all the Queen’s money? Remember, mummy, with the things dangling from the walls and the horrible items they used to make the poor men tell the truth? It looks like that.”

My heart stopped beating as I moved forward, taking in the room. Clara was entirely right. The space looked like a dungeon—fit only for murderous thieves and men who waited for the gallows.

Fox snorted before moving forward to flick on a row of lights hanging above work tables, tool benches, and paraphernalia. The light helped dispel some of the original cell appeal, but the walls were damp, the floor unfinished and compacted with earth.

The sharp metallic scent of bronze and lifeless metals hit my nose. Mixing with old sooty smoke from the large fire, and the cold dirt around us, the scent reminded me of Fox.

He belonged here more than he belonged in the black decadent rooms above. I couldn’t swallow at the thought of him living somewhere like this. Enduring a life in this sort of environment.

Clara skipped around the room, inspecting old-fashioned bellows, and eyeing up two massive anvils. Pliers lay scattered along with hammers and odd bits of discarded metal.

My eyes fell on the silver chain draping off the corner of a table. Fox spun to lock gazes with me. He nodded. “It’s the same gauge I used on you. It seems stupid now.” His eyes fell to the glint of silver around my throat. I still wore the star bracelets he’d made. The centre piece that secured my wrists to the belly chain had disappeared into his pocket never to be seen again.

“You were never the danger. It was me. I should’ve been the one to wear that. Not you.” His eyes fell from my throat, tracing the metal under my clothes.

“Wear what?” Clara came to my side, her eyes wide and interested. She coughed gently, sending spasms into my heart.

“Nothing.”

“You always say that.” Snorting in annoyance, Clara dashed off and disappeared through a crack at the back of the work room.

“Clara!” I jogged forward, very aware of how many sharp instruments and dangers this place held. What the hell were we doing down here? Fox could’ve told her his story anywhere. The garden where the sun was bright would’ve been much better than a fucking dungeon. “Get back here.”

“Shit, I thought that room was locked.” Fox moved forward, effortlessly swooping like a shadow on the wall rather than a human. Something about him had changed, almost as if he embraced the side of himself he was about to expose. He didn’t have to hide down here—he fit.

I held back, letting him crack open the heavy door that looked like a bank vault. Disappearing inside, he looked over his shoulder. “It’s safe. I promise. It’s a hobby of mine—that’s all.”

I frowned, entering the smallish space. Rows and rows of shelves existed from floor to ceiling.

Oh, my God. My heart clouted my ribcage, taking in what the shelves held. How was this possible? I’ve stepped through time, or entered a movie set.

“Wow, this is awesome,” Clara said, spinning around in a treasure trove of weaponry.

Fox kept a careful eye on her, but his body faced mine, ready to take whatever I had to say. I glared at him, unable to believe he thought bringing a child to someplace like this was smart.

But as much as I wanted to scream, I couldn’t deny he hovered over her like a protective father, ready to snatch whatever danger she gravitated toward out of her reach.

“Holy crap.” I drifted forward, eyes bugging at the huge arsenal hidden beneath Fox’s house. A secret room full of secret things. Things from his past. Things no one should see. Unless they were a Jacobite, or Napoleon Hill. Every item of death existed from dirks, sickles, swords, and bayonets to sabres, axes, long bows, and nun-chucks.

“Like I said, I don’t use them. Not anymore. I just make them. I did it before with—and…well, I find it therapeutic to work with what I know.” His body vibrated with tension, filling the small space with masculine energy.

My face went slack as I drifted around the room, drinking in the sight of blades and killing apparatus, breathing in bronze and iron, metallic and sharp.

Clara piped up, dragging her damageable fingers along a wicked looking spiked mace. I almost had a heart attack before Fox carefully removed her hand and placed it by her side.

“You made this?” Her innocent voice rang around the room—a huge contradiction of purity compared to the barbaricness of what she touched. “Are you going to war? Who are you fighting?” She stilled, biting her lower lip. “Ohhhh, I get it. Is that how you got your scar? You’ve been to war.”

My heart glowed for my bright little girl. “Stop asking such prying questions, Clara. His scar is personal, and I doubt it’s a story he can tell easily.”

I glanced at Fox, and he unconsciously stroked the puckered skin on his otherwise perfect face. He had a five o’clock shadow which was unusual for him, and no hair grew where the skin had been damaged.

He blinked, shaking whatever memories haunted him away. “I might tell you that story another time, little one, but not today.”

Ducking to her level, he added, “I didn’t go to war, but I did serve time and obeyed orders I wished I didn’t have to.”

Clara’s face fell. “I’m sorry.”

Fox’s lips twitched into a small smile. “It’s not your fault.” His face darkened. “If you want to hear my story, Clara, you have to promise me you won’t be sad. It isn’t about fairies or mermaids, it’s about a little boy who had a family and was made to do bad things to them. It’s about a teenager who did things he’ll never be free of, and it’s about a man who wished he could rewind the past and start all over again.”

Clara nodded, blinking big soulful eyes. “I promise. I know bad things happen. I’m big enough to hear.”

He looked up, grey eyes delving into mine. “I’ll censor, but it’s still going to be hard to tell.” He stood up, coming toward me, but not reaching out. “Is that okay?”

Was it okay? Not really. I didn’t like the thought of Clara’s head being full of sadness, or things that might give her nightmares. I didn’t like that Fox had chosen my daughter to share his past with—but I also…

Shit, I trust him.

I trusted him not to go too far. To filter the gruesome and spin a story that Clara would believe would be fanciful and fantastical. Something released in me, some of the anger I felt disappeared, and I found myself falling once again for the damaged man before me.

“I trust you.” Three simple words, but they resonated with a new beginning. Somehow, I’d forgiven him yet again. I’d granted absolution for him stealing my daughter and turning my life upside down.

He sucked in a massive gust of air, eyes boring into mine. He didn’t need to say anything, I could read him clear as day. He vibrated with thankfulness.

“Just… be gentle,” I whispered.

He grimaced. “I’m trying damn hard to embrace that word every day.”

Clara moved closer to Fox, and I tensed, hoping she wouldn’t touch him. She must’ve been affected by what Fox did in the office more than she let on because she kept her tiny hands to herself. “Why don’t you like to be gentle? Did you never have a pet to learn how to be nice? I can teach you to be gentle. It’s not hard.”

I laughed softly. “It’s not that easy to teach a man to ignore a lifetime of training, Clara.”

Her face shot to mine, sadness tugging her mouth down.

I rushed to add, “But I know you help Fox a great deal.”

Clara scowled, one dainty foot stomped the floor. “His name is Roan, mummy. How many times do I need to tell you?”

Fox chuckled, smiling sadly in my direction. “I never told your mother what my first name was. She’s not used to calling me by it.” His large hand moved to ruffle her hair, but dropped just as quickly. “My first name is precious to me. I told no one, not even the men I grew up with. You were the first one I told.”

My heart burst. I never thought about a name being sacred or something to be hoarded. In my past, I traded names like I stole new clothing, never attached, always changing.

Fox sensed my train of thought and murmured, “My first name was the only thing I had left of my past before they stole everything from me. I kept it hidden, first in defiance, then in desperation. Only my little brother, Vasily, was allowed to call me Roan. And now Clara. And now… you.”

I swallowed hard, picturing a younger version of the scarred man in front of me. “You want me to call you Roan?”

He captured my heart and soul with his look. “Yes. It would mean a lot to me.”

Fox suddenly moved forward.

My back straightened, stomach flurried. He was close, so close, his white-grey eyes staring mournfully into mine. “Please forgive me for what I’m about to tell you. But if you can’t…I understand.”

Tearful prickles raced up my spine and I couldn’t speak. I nodded, aching to hug him, offer solace in my arms. For two days I kept my distance, harbouring my anger, not wanting to be weak when my first duty was to Clara, but it was no use. I wanted to help this man. I couldn’t stop—just like I couldn’t stop my feelings for him.

Fox’s nostrils flared, his lips parted, and every part of me throbbed for every part of him. Even though Clara would never be safe around him, I had a hard time ignoring practicality in favour of my heart.

And my heart wanted Roan.

Desperately.

I didn’t just want him physically; I wanted him mentally, emotionally, spiritually. I wanted to own every part of him and trade his life for mine.

Clara broke our moment with a cringe worthy question. “You have so many weapons. Have you used them?” She stroked a huge sword that looked as if it should be stuck in a rock in some storybook myth. Her voice was faint, but her question turned Fox to a statue. “Have you killed people before? Did they deserve it?”

Every question sent a dagger into my heart. Who knew that a kid with no life experience could have such perception? She read everyone like a picture book. All our sins and secrets might as well be tattooed on our foreheads.

Fox closed his eyes, an expression of deep regret and pain etched his features. Finally he opened them again. “I wish I didn’t have to answer your question, but I promised myself I would tell the truth.” Sighing, he added, “I’ve taken lives before. Some bad. Some deserving. But most were kind and gentle and didn’t deserve to die.” He looked up, freezing me in his stare. “But I didn’t do it willingly. You have to believe me.”

I couldn’t catch a proper breath. The room closed in, swords and daggers loomed like nightmares, filling my head with horror.

Clara moved closer to Fox and it wasn’t until she put a hand on his leg that I noticed she clutched a tiny dagger with an intricate gem inlaid in the hilt. Fox sucked in a breath at her touch, but didn’t move.

I backed toward a shelf, blindly groping for a blade just in case.

With ease and brittle gentleness, he pried Clara’s fingers from around the dagger before placing it back on a shelf. “I don’t think your mother would want you playing with knifes.” He shot me a look. “How about we get out of here? You’ve seen enough.”

Clara shook her head, her eyes never leaving the pretty ruby inlaid dagger. “I don’t want to play with them. I want to make them. They’re so pretty and shiny, and I want to know how. Can you show me? Please? Can I have that?” She pointed at the knife.

“You’re not having a knife, Clara. No matter how much you beg.” I glared my ‘do-not-mess-with-me scowl.’

Fox didn’t smile. His face remained serious as he said, “Maybe when you’re older I can teach you. You should only have a blade if you know how to use it. It’s dangerous to wield something you don’t understand.”

I balled my hands, fighting the painful squeeze on my heart at the thought of Clara growing up. I wanted that to happen. So much.

Clara moved to the other side of the room, brushing her fingers along a particular sword that’d been polished until the blade turned into a mirror. Her delicate features bounced back, contorted by the shape of the metal. “I suppose I can wait. But don’t be too long.” Her eyes darted up and latched onto mine with intelligence far beyond her years. “Being allergic to air is hard. I don’t think I have too much time.”

My knees buckled and the heavy shroud of faintness almost stole my sanity.

A strangled noise sounded low in my chest, and Fox looked up to glare at me. How did she know? Did she sense her lifespan would be shorter than most?

How does she know?

Tears wobbled in my eyes at the thought of her lying in bed at night afraid and alone. She never asked about her coughing fits, asthma attacks, or constant lung infections, never once questioning what it meant, and why she was different from other kids.

Ignoring Fox’s confused and angry glower, I held my hand out for Clara to come to me. Dropping to her height, I whispered in her ear, “I love you so incredibly much. You’d talk to me if something was worrying you. Wouldn’t you?”

She nodded, rolling her eyes. “Of course. But nothing’s worrying me, so I’m all hunky-dory. Can Roan tell his story now?”

I wanted to scream. To demand she tell me why she thought she had less time. I wanted to know her every thought and conclusion, but I forced my fingers to unclamp around her shoulders and breathed deep.

I couldn’t crush her enthusiasm, but didn’t know if I had the reserves to listen to such a dark and sorrow-filled story Fox obviously had to share. Not now.

Fox seethed with temper; his eyes burned a hole into mine. The energy in the small room was full of questions. He heard truth in the cryptic comment from Clara. His perception was too highly tuned. But that made sense now. After seeing his workshop, weapons, and finding out he killed people; he transformed into more hunter than man in my eyes. Of course, he would have the instincts of a true predator—after all, they relied on their instincts to survive.

I looked up, shaking my head. I’ll tell you, but not yet.

I hoped to avoid the subject to spare him. I hoped to avoid it, because I wasn’t strong enough to voice it. If I told another person, it made it real. I didn’t want to make it real.

Fox scowled and came toward me. Grasping my elbow, he lowered his head to mine. His breath sent shivers down my back as he whispered harshly, “Be prepared to talk after this, Hazel. I’m done being kept in the dark. I want to know. And you’re going to tell me every single thing you’ve been keeping secret.”

Before I could reply, he left the vault and disappeared.

My heart couldn’t calm down at the furious restraint in his voice. He was pissed and no way in hell did I want to deal with a pissed off Fox.

Clara and I followed, hanging back as Fox spent a few minutes dragging dinged up leather chairs toward the central fireplace. Grabbing a poker, he viciously stabbed the coal embers until happy yellow and orange flames came to life.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sucked in a heavy breath before deliberately shedding his anger and re-centring himself.

Holding out his hand, he ordered, “Come here.”

My heart couldn’t cope; I shuffled after Clara toward one of the chairs and sat heavily into the soft, springy cushion. Clara lost her fierce independence and instead of taking the other chair, she plopped onto my knee and snuggled. Together we sank into the leather, looking up at Fox. His scarred cheek danced with firelight; his body echoed with pain. Pain given to him by his past. Pain given to him by telling the truth.

His eyes locked with mine, and I didn’t know what he searched for. Acceptance, understanding, willingness to listen and not judge until the end? I didn’t know, but at least he no longer looked as if he wanted to tear me apart for keeping secrets from him. For now Clara’s impending demise was safe.

He held up his hands, bracing them like a traffic warden, displaying fleshy palms and callused fingers. “See that? The marks directly in the centre?” He leaned forward, so his hands were only a foot away from our faces.

Clara spotted the greenish-grey lines before me. “Yep. They’re faded. Do they mean something?” Her voice was timid and I cuddled her closer.

Fox curled his lip, bringing his hands back to him, glaring hatefully at them. “Invisible, impenetrable, invincible.”

The hair on the nape of my neck sprang up as he added in a low timbre voice, “Nevidimyy, nepronitsayemyy, nepobedimyy.”

He looked up, eyes glinting with remembered hatred. “The three things a Ghost must be. I’ve scrubbed my hands with abrasives; spent hours scouring them with sand to remove their trace, to forget, but they never leave, just like the conditioning will never leave.”

His voice turned inward, full of memories, echoing with agony. “That’s all we were. Ghosts to do their bidding and obey their every request. We were told to kill and we did. We were told every murder would slowly turn us immortal like gods. And just like gods, we had power. We were the law and nothing could touch us.”

He shook his head violently. “But that was all a lie. We were just humans, tortured within an inch of our psyche to become what they wanted us to be. A mindless machine for hire. Mercenaries of the highest order who anyone could buy to complete a task.”

His body shuddered, bowing his head. His hands clenched and every turmoil he felt lashed at me, bleeding me dry. He battled so deep, suffered so much, sucked backward where nightmares still ruled.

Minutes passed while Fox stood motionless, only his lips moving soundlessly. I’d seen a few people have flashbacks, their present overcome by an overpowering memory. Clara squirmed on my lap, her little body tensing with every minute.

As sudden as the flashback took him it was over. He looked up, blinking once. He rolled his shoulders. “Sorry.”

Clara shifted. “What were you thinking about?” Her warm, comforting weight helped keep my panic at bay, retaining my utter horror for the pain Fox had lived through.

“I was thinking about a little boy. You remind me of him so much, Clara. He was bright, funny, brave. His name was Vasily—it means kingly, of royal descent. He was nine when he died.”

Clara sighed. “I’m sorry. I like his name. What does yours mean?”

Fox smiled. “It means redhead, even though my hair turned darker as I grew older. A false name really.”

“I like it better than Ghost or Fox. I don’t believe in ghosts and you’re not see-through and can’t fly, so that’s just stupid. Those bad men who made you do bad things know nothing.”

I smothered a chuckle under my breath. I didn’t mean to laugh—the tension in the room had no space for humour—but Fox cracked a smile, too. Some of the overwound tension left his body. “You’re right. I’m not a Ghost. Not anymore. I’m just a man searching for a way to be human again.”

My heart squeezed to death.

Clara leaned back into me, her dark eyes riveted on the licking flames dancing over Fox’s face. “You may have killed, but you aren’t a bad man.”

Fox froze, drowning in her gaze. “What makes you say that?”

She broke eye contact, kicking her feet, looking anywhere but at him. “Because only bad men are lonely because no one can love them.” Her little lungs strained, sucking in courage. She burst out, “And I love you, so you can’t be a bad man otherwise how could I love you? I would know. I would be able to tell you were naughty, and I wouldn’t want to love someone like that.”

Fox went from standing straight and tall to looking ancient and frail. He sucked in a heavy breath, and for the briefest of moments, moisture filled his eyes. But then it was gone, and the fragility was replaced with power once again.

His throat worked hard. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll start the story now.” Gripping the hem of his black t-shirt, he tore it over his head.

What in the living daylights is he doing?

I squeezed Clara so hard she squeaked. For weeks I’d wanted to see Fox naked. I’d wanted to understand what he kept hidden. But now he stood before me and I wanted to shut my eyes.

He didn’t need to verbalize his story. It lived in his skin, engraved into muscles, and imprinted into flesh.

Balling the t-shirt, he threw it away.

My eyes were transfixed by his ripped muscles. They were too defined, too angry, too lacking nutrients and a healthy layer of fat. Every sinew, every vein, every thread and bunch of muscle seethed beneath the thin membrane of skin.

My fingers ached to touch him, to run along the long swooping scar on his rib cage and whisper over the small uniformed marks just below his collarbone. There were circular scars and oblong scars, square scars and scars that looked as if they still retained gravel and dirt from however they hurt him.

His stomach was so toned every ridge looked too harsh, too unforgiving to cuddle or sleep against. He didn’t look man. He looked like stone. Forged from granite and marble, carved from obsidian and slate.

“Fox…I—” My voice deserted me. A flare of connection and lust sprang to a fever pitch between us. Fox tensed, highlighting yet more scars in the light of the fire.

“Now you know why I don’t like for people to see.”

Clara stayed mute on my lap, either unimpressed by the show of male brokenness, or overwhelmed by the violence living on his skin. I shouldn’t allow this. I should take her far away, so she didn’t have to live with such atrocities in her young mind.

But she knew things she shouldn’t know. She knew her time was limited. She acted far beyond her age, yet she dealt with everything with such fine edged decorum and sensibility.

Tears tracked silently down my cheeks for both Fox and Clara. Two people who connected and were drawn to each other; two people who would destroy each other.

“I don’t want people to know. I don’t want people to guess my story, or display my crimes. Every day I try to forget, but every day I remember thanks to a body that will never erase or heal. But if you want to know, I will tell you the story behind every mark and cut. I’ve never forgotten—the memories are vivid and never ending in my head.” His voice dabbled with self-hatred and pleading.

I shook my head. I never wanted to know. I thought I did. I thought I wanted to uncover his secrets, but I couldn’t make him live through his past—not while it lived so deeply on his skin in the present.

Clara had no such scruples.

Her little hand darted up, pointing to a scar above his protruding hip bone. “That looks like a ce—cee—caesarean scar. Mummy has one, and she said she loves it because it reminds her of me.” She swirled in my arms to plant a gentle kiss on my cheek. “I didn’t mean to scar you, you know.”

I gathered her close, squeezing hard. “I love that scar. I’m thankful for it every day as it brought you into my life.” She sighed and squirmed closer while looking up at Fox.

Dropping his eyes, he traced the scar with a finger. “This is from a knife similar to the one you picked up. It was a test—weeding out the recruits who would operate in intense pain compared to those who couldn’t.”

My hands wanted to slam over Clara’s ears. I shot Fox a warning look. “Perhaps we’ve had enough story-time for one day.” I shot another message with my eyes. Stop it. You’ll scare her. She doesn’t need to know details.

Fox nodded. “We’ll avoid the scars for now. I’ll tell you the story of this.” Sucking in a breath, he turned away from us.

My mouth fell open, jaw slack in shock. If I thought his chest was impressive with its relic of memories, his back was a piece of parchment with history inked into every crevice.

Clara bounced off my lap, tearing my arms off her. “Wow.” She moved forward, transfixed on his tattooed back. The golden hue of licking flames highlighted the ridges of his muscles and flickered over the silver of his scars like some expensive imbedded jewellery. “What happened to you?” Clara leaned forward, childlike wonder shining bright in her eyes.

“Life happened to me, little one.”

I didn’t know if I wanted to laugh or cry. In one move, Fox gave everything that he was. He bared his soul; he dropped every barrier, so we could understand him better.

I hated myself in that moment for keeping so much from him. For judging him. For not understanding or granting more compassion.

His tattoo wasn’t something he wore with pride. It wasn’t an achievement or earned. It was a plain message of ownership. Every design spoke of proprietorship and control.

My heart swelled for this broken warrior. My eyes burned with tears.

Looking over his shoulder, he murmured, “Ready for your story now?”

Clara nodded, dumfounded, eyes flittering all over his inked back. Fox bent his knees and crashed to the floor, presenting himself at my feet. Clara moved closer, breathing hard. “Can I—I want to—”

Fox clenched his fists, digging them into his thighs. “You can. I’ll tell you which to touch, and I’ll tell you the story.”

A large smile broke her face, then she frowned. “Is it all sad? I don’t know if I want to listen to something all sad.”

Fox laughed softly. “Life is sad, little one. It’s full of heartache and bittersweet hope, but you are my happy ending. You are my happiness, so remember that when I tell you.”

Clara reached out to touch.

My throat dried to a husk as Fox muttered, “Go slowly. Start at the top.”

My muscles were ready to spurn forth and snatch my daughter away. This was the worst possible place for her to touch him. Weapons lurked in every corner, a fire billowed beside them. He could bludgeon her and burn all evidence in a matter of moments.

Clara nodded, her fingers trembled as she gently laid a hand on the base of his neck where a Celtic-like knot had been drawn.

Fox said, “That one—that’s the symbol of never-ending battle.” He stopped, clearing his throat. “Once upon a time, a boy who was born to royal blood strayed too far from home. He didn’t listen to his mother’s warnings and thought he knew best. Their castle rested on the edge of a mystical forest where bears and wolves played in the snow. The little boy explored for hours, searching for them, but he didn’t find any bears or wolves. But he did find something else.”

Clara dropped her hand to the next tattoo, willing Roan to continue.

Roan.

I’d slipped and thought of him by his first name.

He flinched as her finger circled an angel bowing over a sword across her legs with three words in a circle. “That’s the mark of a Ghost. The angel of death and our three promises: Invincible, impenetrable, invisible. It was a pledge, a curse, our destiny.”

Fox sucked in a breath and continued with his story. “The little boy found two men and thought they were there to guide him back home. So he went willingly and didn’t struggle when they shoved him into a van and drove for miles into the wilderness. They told the boy his old life was over and to survive he must follow every rule without question.”

The atmosphere in the room thickened with anticipation. I sat forward on the chair, inching closer, my skin tingling.

Clara stuck her tongue out in concentration, dropping her hand to the next symbol. It depicted a swarm of angry swirls, never ending.

“That one represents evil. We were the weapons of righteousness. Our only purpose was to obey our master—if we did as we were ordered, we would be safe from evil.” His back tensed as he continued, “Years passed for the boy as he grew from child to teen to adult. As he completed stages of training, exams were given and to pass he had to hurt his beautiful mother, courageous father, and talented little brother. The boy was brainwashed every day. He was told he was no longer human, but a Ghost whose job was to exterminate vermin. Out of fifty other boys and girls who lived with him in this new castle, only thirteen graduated. The rest disappeared, stolen by the snow to never be seen again.”

I winced as my nails dug hard into my palms, drawing blood. My heart thumped in heavy pain for all the children who’d been forced to kill. All the children who’d been murdered by the sick, twisted men who kidnapped and tortured young innocence.

Clara shook her head in sadness. My heart seized at the thought of her wrapping her arms around him and hugging. The longer Fox told his story, the further his voice sounded—swallowed up by the past. It lost its intensity, drifting off into a soft, hypnotic tone.

Clara dropped her fingers, tracing a pretty snowflake on Fox’s spine.

He growled, hands clenching. Clara lost her balance a little before steadying herself.

“That’s the tattoo I hate the most. It was punishment. If we failed to do exactly what they wanted, they’d make us spend nights alone in the forest. The once mystical bears and wolves I wanted to find were now my enemies in the dark. Hungry and looking for a tasty snack—” He cut himself off before continuing, “The little boy spent his eighth birthday in the pit. The worst place to go if you disappointed your handlers. Day and night with no shelter. No warmth from dusting snow, or blankets to stop frostbite from turning your limbs into ice. The little boy hated the pit, and his deep-seated fear of the dark stemmed from those nights. Endless blackness only punctured by a weak moon and the glowing yellow eyes of wolves.”

Clara skirted over the Roman numeral III and went straight to a flame with an anvil.

Fox sighed, releasing some of his recalled fear. “When the little boy obeyed orders, he was allowed to work in the smithy. He loved the heat and brightness of fire and his skills grew. He threw himself into turning hunks of metal into weapons of destruction—it was his happy place. Despite the daily toils and gruesome tasks he was given, the boy never forgot who he truly was and always remembered the truth. They broke him again and again, but he knew in his heart he wasn’t what they said he was. It wasn’t until a fairy godmother granted him the loss of sight that he was able to find freedom.”

What? Fox had been blind?

Clara whispered, “The last tattoo of the fox. That’s you?”

Fox smiled. “Yes, when the little boy graduated he was told to choose a code name. Something he would wear with honour for his achievements. He liked to think he was smart enough to win in the end—wily and cunning like the small, red-coated fox. It reminded the little boy of his mother’s red hair, and his father’s bushy moustache.”

Clara leaned back, waiting for the end of the story.

“The moment the little boy was free, he made a new promise. To never kill again and that he’d find a way to break the brainwashing and make up for his sins. But it wasn’t until a little girl with long dark hair entered his life that he was finally able to believe he could achieve his promise.” Fox looked over his shoulder, grey eyes blazing into mine. “Now life is good for the little boy, and he can finally start to put the past behind him. Every day he strives for forgiveness, chasing an unfamiliar emotion. He has something else to fight for.”

“What’s that?” Clara whispered, her face glowing from the fire.

Fox spun around, hiding his back from view. His lips twitched into a soft smile, causing a flurry of butterflies to erupt in my stomach. “Family.”

I didn’t think I was capable of feeling so wretched or so hopeful all at once. He hadn’t just stolen Clara from me, he’d stolen my heart. I wanted to throw myself into his arms and tell him I’d do anything to bring his dreams to life.

Then my heart shattered. What will he do when I tell him about Clara?

The thought made me want to run and never come back. He’d hate me.

Fox stood up suddenly and headed to a table beneath a bright halogen. He tucked something under his arm and came back. Placing the dirty rag-wrapped present on the floor by Clara’s feet, he yanked the material off. Resting on the floor was the fattest, woolliest, perfectly created metal sheep I’d ever seen.

My heart cracked, splintered, shattered in my chest. And I knew without a doubt I would love Roan until I died.

Clara’s eyes bugged and her little mouth fell open in a huge grin. “My sheep!”

Fox nodded. “Your sheep.”

That night, after an afternoon of heavy contemplation about Fox’s story, I put Clara to bed. Hugging her tightly, I breathed in her fresh apple scent, praying with all my soul she would survive beyond all doctors’ predictions. That she wouldn’t have to leave me.

After hearing Fox’s tale, I wanted to tell him mine. I wanted to be as open and honest, but at the same time I didn’t want to. I had no happy ending to offer him. I didn’t want to break the little boy’s heart and kill him, so soon after he found a way to be free.

Clara coughed quietly, drawing my attention. Her beautiful liquid eyes shone from the bedside light. “Something’s wrong with me. Isn’t there, mummy?” Her high lyrical voice was hushed, almost as if she didn’t want to say it aloud.

My world crunched to a stop, but instead of wailing and cursing life for such unfairness, I clutched hard at calmness and hid my tears. Strength I didn’t know I had filled my limbs, keeping my voice steady.

Inside, I felt like a cracked china doll with broken pieces that would never be glued together again, but externally, I was a strong mother who would be there for her daughter till the end.

Running my hands through her hair, I murmured, “There’s nothing wrong with you, Clara. You’re perfect in every way.” I sucked in a breath. “And that’s why you’ll be leaving me soon. You’re too perfect for this world. Too precious. You’ll be called to somewhere much better than here.” I clamped my lips closed as a wave of grief threatened to make me break. “You have nothing to be frightened of. Promise me you won’t be scared.” She looked up, her large, dark eyes looking like an eclipse blotting out the light. “Why do I have to go? I don’t want to leave you.”

I had no answers for her. My mind was blank and worthless. “We never know what life will bring. But we won’t be apart for long.”

“Did I do something bad? Is that why I cough so much?”

Oh, God.

“You didn’t do anything bad. Nothing. It’s just your lungs, sweetheart. Some people are born with a different life path, but it doesn’t mean you won’t be happy and healthy. You’re just going to somewhere better.”

She lay quiet for a time before tugging on my fingers. “Will you be okay? When I’m gone, I mean?”

I gave up the battle to stay dry-eyed and kissed her soft forehead. “I’ll be fine. I promise. I’ll talk to you every day. You’ll be with me always.”

She sighed, pressing her face against mine. “Even though I might leave, I won’t ever truly leave you, mummy. I’ll find a way to come back and be with you. But you have to promise me you won’t be alone. I would cry to think of you sad because I left you.”

I couldn’t reply.

She squirmed upright, placing her slightly sticky hand on my cheek, just like she’d done to Roan. “Promise me you’ll fix him, mummy. He needs you.”

I didn’t want to promise something I couldn’t achieve, but looking into her urgent eyes, I found myself nodding and swearing on my life I would fix the man I was falling for.

Only after I’d told Clara a story, and unwrapped her sleeping figure from my arms, did I slide down the bathroom door and cried wracking sobs with a fist in my mouth. On and on, wave after wave of crashing sorrow.

I purged myself until no more liquid existed in my body.

Only once my body quietened from sobs, did I stand up and look in the bottom of the rubbish bin where I’d hidden yet another complication.

The two pink lines mocked me from the home pregnancy test. All my life I believed I had one chance at motherhood. That the brutal attack in my teens left me barren. All the doctors concurred I was too badly mangled to conceive again. The nurses stroked my hands and consoled me. I’d been offered counselling to come to terms with never giving Clara a brother or sister.

At the time, I didn’t care. Clara had been a mistake—a wonderfully joyous mistake, but one I probably wouldn’t do a second time—but as time passed, I found myself sad to think I would never bring more life and wonder into the world.

But just like everything, life had a way of knocking me on my ass with surprises.

Conceived by a forceful lover and a man consumed by demons.

I was now pregnant with his future.