Chapter 22: Beautiful Scar: Chapter 22

I leap out of bed to the sound of hammers destroying my brain.

Wait, no, not my brain—destroying a freaking wall.

“Tigran?” I look around wildly before hurrying into the hell between our suites. The door’s open, and the noise is coming from my room. “Tigran!”

I find my husband hunched over a window, whacking the frame with a hammer. Three of his guards are lurking behind him, each looking like they’d rather be anywhere else. All four men turn in my direction, and the hammer lingers in the air for one brief moment before my husband crashes it down again and breaks off the lower sill.

“That’s how it’s fucking done,” he says, grimacing in pain as he raises the hammer again.

“Absolutely fucking not,” I say and storm over to him, beyond livid. He grunts in surprise as I grab his elbow. “What the hell are you thinking right now?”

“You’re cursing,” he says, highly amused. “I don’t think I’ve heard you curse like that before.”

“Then listen to me now, you stupid motherfucker, because this is the dumbest goddamn shit I’ve ever fucking seen.” I turn to the guards. “And you two, what were you thinking? Your boss got shot and stabbed last night, and you’re letting him do manual fucking labor?”

“Sorry,” one of them mutters, and the other has the good sense to look equally ashamed.

I turn back to my idiot husband, and he’s grinning like this is some big joke. Except I don’t find it funny at all. I nearly lost him last night, and the idea of letting him hurt himself all over again because he wants to do some stupid and ill-advised home improvement project is absolutely maddening.

“I like this on you,” he says, tilting the hammer in my direction.

I snatch it from his limp fingers. “You belong in bed, you asshole.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Keep yelling at me, baby, and I’ll have to send the men away.”

My cheeks turn red, but I’m not going to let him embarrass me into submission. I grab his arm and push him away from the ruined wall, tossing the hammer onto the couch. “What were you thinking?” I say, barely controlling my anger. “The doctor told you to take it easy, and this is what you do?”

“I’m fine, kitten.” But he lets me guide him back to his rooms and only pauses to bark orders back at his guards, telling them to pick up where he left off and bring in more men to help. I’m too pissed and worried to think hard about what that means or why he’s smashing one of my windows with a hammer.

All I can think about is my injured husband, the blood on his clothes, his pale, waxy skin from the night before, his shallow breathing. Panic threatens, but I shove it back.

I’m not going to fall apart again. Not right now when he clearly needs someone with sense in their damn head. I failed him last night—he had to comfort me in the end—but I won’t do that again.

I’m going to be stronger for him.

Because obviously someone has to be.

“Sit down, you idiot,” I murmur softly once he’s back in his own living area. He sinks onto the couch with a sigh and lets me put some pillows behind his back. “Now I’m calling Vito to have him bring up coffee, something to eat, and to bring the doctor for a checkup, and if you complain or move from this couch, I swear I’ll put laxatives in your food for the next month. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, baby, I understand.” He seems much too happy right now. It’s almost like he doesn’t know how close he is to death. Because if he keeps going this way, I’m going to jump on his back like a monkey and strangle him.

Better to take him down myself than let him kill himself through his own stupid neglect.

By the time Vito shows up, my nausea’s going crazy again. I excuse myself, thinking I just need a little water splashed on my face, but end up puking for twenty minutes. As suddenly as it hit, though, the sickness disappears, and I find Tigran waiting for me in the hall outside my bathroom.

“I was about to kick that door down,” he says, concern all over his face.

“What did I say about leaving that couch?”

He ignores me, looming closer. “When did it start?”

“I don’t know. Does it even matter? I’m just dealing with a little virus, while you—” I jab a finger into his chest. “You’re dealing with a gunshot wound and a whole lot of stitches. Get back on that couch.”

He grumbles, not happy, but doesn’t fight as I lead him back into his suite. Coffee, pastries, fruit, and yogurt are waiting for us there, and I help myself to some of his breakfast while he mumbles to himself about hating twins and all the Irish in the world.

“Now, now, don’t blame an entire country of people for the mistakes of a few.” I pat his face lightly and sit with my legs in his lap. “Now, would you like to tell me why you decided to start ripping up my room?”

“It was for your safety.”

“Weird how that’s always your excuse.”

“Because that’s all I care about.”

“Right, sure, but what project was it this time? Installing motion sensors? Maybe infrared heat mapping devices so you can know whenever I’m remotely cold?”

“I kind of like that idea,” he says, lips pressed together thoughtfully. “I’d be able to see that beautiful naked body of yours getting hotter and hotter⁠—”

“I was joking, you maniac. Seriously, what was with the hammer?”

He goes quiet and pulls into himself. I’ve seen this happen before. Tigran’s clearly not used to answering questions from other people, and if he doesn’t want to talk about it, then he’s going to do his best to say nothing.

Maybe I would’ve let him get away with that when we first met. Back then, I would’ve pulled into myself, whimpered like a lost little deer, and allowed him to roll all over me.

Not anymore. I’m Tigran’s wife. There’s no way he’s going to clam up just because the big dickweed doesn’t feel like explaining.

I lean in close and squeeze his cheeks between my hands. “Talk to me or I’m going to tell Vito to start loading up on Ex-Lax.”

He flinches slightly and gently moves my hands from his face. “There were pictures of you in Ciaran’s safe house, which means he’s been watching from some nearby vantage. I have men out sweeping everything, including some very illegal breaking and entering, but I need to be sure you’re safe. Which is why we’re going to rip out the windows and replace them with bulletproof glass.”

I flop back with a groan. This fucking guy is insane. He sees some pictures and thinks the only solution is to turn his house into a freaking fortress.

“And you had to start that today? The morning after you got shot?”

“I had to start the moment I woke up. Pisik, protecting you⁠—”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s everything, I get it. You’re a broken record.” I squint at him, trying to keep myself from getting too annoyed. “I appreciate what you’re doing, I really do, but you can’t get yourself hurt trying to protect me, okay? We’re done with that. We’re in this together, remember?”

He hesitates, and I can tell he doesn’t like it. Tigran’s used to being the one in charge. He wants to be the big, strong, manly man who swoops into action and saves the weak little damsel.

And that was me. Even just a few days ago, I doubt I’d talk to him like this.

But I’m changing. I feel myself coming out of my deep, dark slumber, like I’m waking up and cracking through a shell.

Like I’m becoming my old self again.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he says, lifting his coffee to his perfect lips. “I want to know something about you, and if you tell me about it, I’ll stay on the couch until lunch.”

“All day,” I counter, eyes narrowed.

“Until dinner,” he says, shaking his head. “I can’t stay in one place for longer than that.”

I sigh, realizing that this is probably the best I’ll get, and relent. “What do you want to know?”

He runs a finger up my calf. “How did you get the scar?”

I go very still. He’s stroking my leg casually like he didn’t just drop a total bomb on my head. I reach up and touch the ugly knot of tissue, looking away from him as I shiver and close my eyes. “I don’t like talking about it.”

“I know you don’t. That’s why I haven’t asked until now. But I think this is a safe time.” His tone softens a touch. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But I do want to know.”

“It’s a bad story.” Even just thinking about it would’ve sent me running back to my bedroom to hide under the covers. But with Tigran’s hand on my legs and a warm coffee in my hands, maybe he’s right. Maybe this is a safe time. “Do you really want to know?”

“I want to know everything about you, baby.”

“It’s ugly.” I pull my fingers away. “The story. And the scar.”

“I think the scar is beautiful. It’s a part of you.”

I take a deep breath and force myself to talk. “I was thirteen when it happened. Back then, I’d come home from school and let myself into the house. Dad was out working, and my mom ran off a couple of years after my younger brother was born. I got used to it, though.”

“You were a latchkey kid,” Tigran says, nodding to himself. “That’s what they call it, right?”

“Yeah, exactly. That day, Evan was staying after school for soccer practice, so I was alone. Nothing seemed different, you know? I unpacked my bag, turned on the TV, made myself a snack⁠—”

“What were you eating?”

“Popcorn,” I say automatically, my stomach twisting. “Can’t stand the sight of it now.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“He broke in while I was on the couch. I thought it was Dad coming home drunk or something. He did that once in a while. There was this loud slam, and I turned around to tell him to cut it out, but it wasn’t my father. It was someone else.”

Tigran’s stroking slows. I’m staring at the wisps of steam rising off the surface of my coffee, and I’m back in that living room again, thirteen years old, confused, surprised, and terrified, not sure what to do. Nobody teaches you how to react when a stranger shows up in your house—in the one place that’s supposed to be safe.

“He took me then,” I tell Tigran, talking automatically. He says nothing, only listens, rapt with attention. “I tried to get away, but he grabbed me by the hair and hit me in the face. His hand smelled like smoke as he dragged me out the back and shoved me into the trunk of his car. I barely fit because he had golf clubs in there. I don’t know how long the drive lasted, but eventually, we ended up at this rundown house out in the suburbs, the kind of place that looked abandoned. He carried me inside, and I kicked and screamed for help, but there was nobody around. He took me down into his basement, where he had this big kennel set up already with a blanket and a pillow inside, the sort of cage you’d put a really huge dog in. He shoved me in and locked it, then stood back and smiled. I’ll never forget that smile. Big white teeth. Lots of red hair. Younger than you think. You know what he said to me?”

“No, baby, I don’t,” Tigran whispers.

“He said, ‘Sorry, kid, but I owe your dad money. We’ll come to an agreement soon, and you’ll be back home, don’t you worry.’ Then he left me there for a really long time.”

I stop talking. Dad says the man had me for three days, but it felt like years. Every second crawled past. The basement was cold and smelled like mold. I was alone most of the time, curled up under the blanket. I screamed and screamed until my throat went hoarse, and nobody came to help.

“The scar,” Tigran says. His voice trembles with restrained emotion. “What happened?”

“He came downstairs one night a little drunk. He had a phone and a knife. His hands were shaking, and he kept apologizing, but he didn’t stop, even when I begged. He grabbed my hair and sliced down my face as I cried and tried to fight him off. Then he took a picture.” My voice breaks, and I have to stop. I don’t know why, but it wasn’t even the agony of the sliced face that really gets me now.

It’s the humiliation. The photograph. The way he so callously took it and sent it along to my father.

“What happened after that?” Tigran prompts.

“Nothing much. He fed me once or twice. Gave me some water. Then one morning, he came down, unlocked the cage, and let me leave. He said everything was fixed. He told me to run and don’t look back. Leaving that house was horrible. I kept thinking he was going to run after me and shoot me in the back. But the second my feet hit pavement, I ran and ran until I couldn’t anymore. Some nice old man found me outside a 7-Eleven, called the police, and that’s how I ended up back home. And I never left the house again for twelve long years.”

Tigran pulls me closer. His arms wrap around my body. I feel those three days in that cage again, but they don’t overwhelm me like they used to.

I can’t remember the last time I told that story without sobbing my eyes out.

It’s still a rotten hole inside me. The scar’s a constant reminder of what that psycho did to me. My captivity broke me, and I’ll never forgive the monster.

“What happened to him?” Tigran asks gently.

“I don’t know,” I admit, shaking my head against him. “Dad said he took care of it and I didn’t need to worry. I never talked to the cops after that first time. It’s like the whole thing just disappeared. He was just some desperate guy who lost too many bets.”

Tigran mumbles something harsh in Armenian and hugs me tighter. We stay like that for a while, and the nasty sting that usually follows reliving that nightmare never quite happens. Instead, I feel safe and warm in my husband’s arms, and even though the scar won’t ever fade and I’ll always carry the damage that bastard did to me, I’m starting to think it doesn’t always have to define me.

“All right, we’ll stay on the couch for a while,” Tigran finally says, kissing my neck gently. Then the hammering starts in the other room again, louder this time, and he grins at me. “But those windows will be replaced.” He tilts my chin toward him and kisses me gently. “And you will stay right here with me until it’s finished.”