Page 40 of Tormented

“What’s his name, Abbey?”

She rolls her eyes and looks to the side. “Evan.”

Did she say . . .?

Calm down. How many Evans are there in this world?

“Surname?”

She shrugs. “I was too young to remember.”

Not that it matters anyway. Her full name, his, and the area Apex found her in should be enough to go off.

I sigh and look her over. She stares at the floor, dejected, and almost seeming disappointed that she caved and told me what she has. Fuck it. She opened up and shared, so now I will too. It’s only fair.

“You said you want to know how I used to be happy. How I used to let everything flow off me like water off a duck’s back.”

She nods.

“I was happy, because I didn’t give a fuck,” I tell her. “When you don’t care two cents what the world thinks of you, it’s a lot easier to be yourself.”

“How can you not care what people say?”

“Because,” I explain, “they’re tellin’ the truth. Rumors and stories are easy to ignore when none of it is made up.”

She swallows, turning slightly so she can rest her back against the set of drawers. “You really took six bullets, then?”

I turn and lift my shirt so she can see the scars on my back and side.

“Oh.”

“I took my first life at thirteen, not fourteen—that one’s a little off—but they’re right, I don’t have a bad singin’ voice when your time is up.”

She smirks, ducking her chin to hide it.

“You don’t smile much, do you? It makes you uncomfortable.”

“A little bit.”

“You feel any better though?”

The lost look on her face as the light drains right out of her eyes, guts me. I step forward, testing her limits, and place a hand to the back of her neck, soothing her jaw with my thumb.

“Little bits at a time, yeah?”

She twitches a smile. “Yeah.”

I lean in and place a kiss to her forehead, before letting go and stepping back completely. “Now how about you let me finish packing?” Because if this continues the way it is, then she’ll never be rid of me.

She nods and pushes off the drawers to walk to the bed. “Are you taking this with you?” Her hand lifts to point out the headboard.

“Nope. Too much hassle.”

“Can I have it?” Her eyes widen with hope.

Mine narrow with confusion. “Why?”

“Because I love it. The design’s so cool.”

“I had it custom-made.”

She bops on the spot, hands clasped, as though asking “Well?”

I shrug. “Guess you can have it.”

“Awesome.” She skips over, hesitates, and then places a chaste kiss to my cheek before leaving the room.

Morose to ecstatic in 5.1 seconds. Girl really does know how to switch her hurt off when she needs to.

Which is why she’s right . . . she doesn’t need your help at all.