Page 88 of Scarred Sins
I take a deep breath, then glance at his hair. “You should wash the bleach off so I can put on the toner.’’
He nods and stands up from the stool. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I’m just curious why you didn’t tell me sooner.’’
He sighs. “I was going to, but after that, I got shot, and you faced Simmons. I didn’t want to overwhelm you, which I now realize was a mistake. I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner. I was just terrified of how it would affect you if I’d told you at the wrong moment.’’
He turns the water on, adjusting the temperature. A few drops splash me, and I shiver. How he’s able to wash his hair with almost Antarctic temperature water is beyond me. As I glance at him, I see genuine remorse for keeping this away from me, and I just shake my head.
“Don’t apologize. You’re probably right. I wouldn’t have taken it well.’’
I can’t even find it in me to be angry at him. He’s too good for me, and I’m only scared he’ll realize just how damaged I am and the weight of the burdens I’m carrying. I’m scared he’ll realize soon enough that he could find someone so much better than me.
He offers me a small smile, then kisses the tip of my nose before lowering his head over the tub and starting to wash out the bleach. This man has given me my life back and is about to help me execute the perfect revenge against those who’d wronged me. I won’t allow my insecurities to overwhelm me and ruin what he’s struggled to build for me.
As for my biological father, I’m more angry than anything else. Yes, he’s a serial cheater and a scumbag, but perhaps if he’d known about me, he wouldn’t have allowed the suffering I had to endure. Perhaps my life would’ve been different.
There’s no point in ‘what if’ questions. I can’t let myself fall down that rabbit hole because I can’t turn back time, I can’t turn my mother into a loving, caring mother, and I can’t undo what she’d done to me.
All I can do is focus on the more pressing matters. And when the time comes, I’ll figure out what to do with Alexander and whether or not to tell him of my existence.
TWENTY-SIX
Arlo woke me up at the crack of dawn. I’m definitely not a morning person, and that’s something I’ve struggled with my entire life. Even back in prison, it was my worst nightmare how early we were always woken up, something Cherryl used to bully me over. That bitch.
I suggested we had a later start, using the excuse of his parents and sister sleeping, but Arlo wouldn’t budge. Apparently, the basement of their house is soundproof, and there was nothing to worry about.
And now, two hours later, at almost seven in the morning, we’re still practicing. He found a perfect gun for me – and I do not know the name or the type because I didn’t bother remembering – and it’s not as heavy as I thought it would be. The weight is perfect, as is the size. Not too big for me to feel overwhelmed but not too small either. Just perfect. Arlo even had my initials engraved on the barrel, which made me feel all fuzzy on the inside.
My man steps behind me, one hand holding my hip. The small touch sends a wave of electricity down my body, and I can’t help but enjoy the brief moment of small intimacy. As if he can feel my inner thoughts, he grips my hip a little tighter, and my entire stomach does a backflip.
My hand holds the gun steadily, and his free hand comes to cover it, readjusting my aim slightly. Thus far, I’ve managed to miss four people posters entirely, luckily to hit one’s eye, and the rest are all over the place.
“Don’t close your eyes,’’ he murmurs, his hot breath fanning my neck. “Both of your eyes need to be open; otherwise, you’ll miss it. Also, you need to put all your strength into your feet and the arm you’re using the gun with because the force of shooting is what’s sending you back every time.’’
I take a deep breath, sweat dripping down my forehead. My entire body feels as if it had been set ablaze, and whether it’s because of the intensity my body’s been put through the past two hours or because of how close he’s standing behind me, I’m not sure.
“Okay, I’ll try.’’ I nod, but I’ve been repeating the same words since we came here. It just proves that Arlo is a fucking saint. He’s so patient with me, correcting my stance before I shoot each time, and he’s not been annoyed or complained, not even once.
He steps back, and the loss of contact makes me sad. I shake my head and focus on the instructions he’s given me, straightening my back, putting all strength into my feet and my right arm, keeping both eyes open, and taking the shot.
The sound of the bullet exiting the barrel reverberates through the basement, the bullet lodging into the wall behind the paper target. A small smile forms on my lips as I step forward, seeing that I shot through it.
It’s not perfect – I didn’t hit the heart or between the eyes, but I did manage to hit straight into the throat. A sense of pride blooms through me because out of all the shots I’ve taken – minus the lucky accidental one – this one is the most lethal.
Arlo claps, and my head turns to the side, looking at him. He’s leaning against the wall, a wide grin on his face, before pushing himself off and walking toward me.
“That was fucking perfect,’’ he kisses my forehead. “I’m so proud of you, butterfly. You’ve done well.’’
“Thank you.’’
He checks his wristwatch, then looks back at me. “Now, it’s time for breakfast.’’
I whine. “Just another ten minutes.’’
He shakes his head. “No. You need food and rest because this afternoon, we’re going back to physical training. The schedule for the next two weeks is two hours of shooting in the morning, two hours of physical combat in the afternoon with a day of break on Sundays.’’
A small groan slips from me when he mentions physical training. I know it’s necessary and definitely needed for me, but I hate it. I hate that he created a regime specifically for me. It includes doing push-ups, doing laps, squats, and even lifting weights, and that’s everything we do before the actual combat practice.
