Page 58 of Penance

“It’s okay, we’ll look at it when we get home. Are you okay?” my eyes check him, scanning over every visible inch.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he nods, his eyes on me for too long.

I resist the urge to squirm until his turquoise eyes finally divert. His gaze on the sign above my head, determining which train we’re on and where it’s going. But I don’t care, I don’t look, I just watch him. The way his jet-black hair hangs over his forehead. The grease he uses to push it back hardly doing its job because he runs his hands through it too much. The way his eyes flick over the map, rapidly taking in every detail, the way he just looked at me.Seeing. My heart squeezes painfully, needles prickling down the centre of my chest. Tears prick my eyes as I look at him. The little lines at the corners of his eyes, a pale scar in his cupid’s bow, all things I’m unfamiliar with. Things and memories I’m not a part of and it stings, a lot.

We were always destined for this. This misery. Everything to be twisted and toxic and fucked up. The worst part is my sixteen-year-old self knew all of this and she went there anyway. And I’m trying so fucking hard not to make that same mistake ten years later. But when you’re faced with the devil of your past, the man that haunts your dreams and nightmares in equal measure. A singular night playing on repeat in your mind’s eye at all the inappropriate times of your life. How are you supposed to keep being mad? Keep being upset. Keep being this angry, frustrated, hurt little girl, just crying out for her lost love even when she shouldn’t. Even when she knows this could never work. Because what is worse than having your love taken from you? It’s when you know that they’re still walking around somewhere, could be close by, could be far. But they’re stillhere.On this plane, this dimension, living and breathing and smiling, just not at you, notforyou.

They’re still here, but they’re not foryouanymore.

“Well,” he finally says.

But heishere.

Youare here.

Together.

What the fuck are you doing, Lala?

“At least we’re heading home. I say we get off at Leicester Square, jump on Piccadilly, get off in Knightsbridge,” he rattles off.

I swallow thickly as he drops his gaze onto me. My eyelids burning, his muscular frame slumped. Ankle and knee of one leg resting against the floor. His other knee bent, foot planted on the floor, leg drawn close to his body, thigh to chest. His thick arm encased in leather perched on top, his hand lazily dangling over the space before him. My body is angled toward him, but I’m on my haunches, my feet tucked under my bum. Bleeding hand clutched to my chest, the other resting atop my thigh, palm down, fingers splayed.

“I’ll call Frank to come get us. If we head up at Leicester Square for signal, I can pop off a message.”

“Your boys will want to hear from you first. I’ll text Frank,” he offers, a soft smile on those excruciatingly beautiful lips.

“They’ll know I’m safe,” I breathe the confession, the lights dimming as we shudder through another tunnel.

“Yeah?” Max hushes out on an exhale, all the while his eyes searching mine.

“Yeah,” I confirm, swallowing hard. “I’m with you.”

“I think you can more than look after yourself, Lala,” Max whispers, his face suddenly much,muchcloser.

My breathing hitches at the same time his does. My chin dipped; I watch his hand lift to my face. Like fire to ice, scorching through every defence I’ve ever put in place. We won’t be alone on this train for much longer. Not on Christmas Eve, Chalk Farm is a quieter station, a little removed, but the next stop is Camden Town, hoards will be boarding. The ice bricks around my heart start melting one after the other, my barbed wire wrapped heart hammering and bleeding. The evidence of it mixing with the river of ice water flowing from me. Tears, I realise, hot and salty, purging me of pain. Falling unbiddenly, they splash against his veiny hand, the hand that’s all for me. Sliding down his thorn wrapped wrist, I heave in a shuddery breath.

The tears don’t stop.

They don’t stop when he kisses them from my cheeks, his tongue sliding along my cheekbone, lips sucking them from my skin. He slides forward, pulling me into the back corner of the carriage. He slumps us down, his back pressed to the corner. Sliding me between his legs, cradling my shaking body to his. They fall like April fucking showers come early, drenching my t-shirt, soaking my face. I lick them from my lips as I sniffle. Sending up a silent prayer in thanks for waterproof makeup and expert setting spray. Swiping hair back from my face, damp with my pain. Max just keeps me tucked up into him, even as his body trembles beneath mine. His strong hands sturdy and grounding, he anchors me here, to this, to him, to us. In this moment I don’t need to be anything and it’s the most freeing feeling in the fucking world.

Tormenting myself with possibilities, outcomes and consequences weigh heavily on me. My life was perfect less than three months ago. No men. No emotions. Just blood and carnage and games. Everything wrapped up in a pretty, blood-stained bow. The Chaos Twins slathering Southbrook in crimson. Drowning her in a macabre production. Hacking and slashing and vengeance. And then Big Man came bulldozing into my life, closely followed by my fearless counterpart and they smashed everything I thought I knew to smithereens.

“I’ve got you, Lala, and I’m never fucking letting you go.”

Max kisses my hair, once, twice, three times. His strong hands clutching me to him so tight I can feel the bruises forming. The train comes to a stop, the doors slide open with a suction sound, feet, laughter, people. I hold my breath, I don’t look up, trusting him. Max whispers reassurances against my temple, his lips brushing my hair and skin. His eyes seeing over my head, locked on the crowds as he speaks. His scorched black wings curl around us, protecting us from everything. His shadowed aura bleeding out into the space surrounding us, poisoning the air, keeping everyone at a distance.

The Devil really is just a fallen angel after all.

“No gunmen.”

“No one’s looking, Lala.”

“The doors are gunna close.”

“Ain’t nothin’ getting to ya.”

“I’ve got you.”

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