Page 18 of Krampus Kruk
“You feel cold.” I pick her up and carry her back to the couch, setting her on the dry area. Lifting the ottoman, I grab a blanket. “I wish I wasn’t so curious about you,” I admit, wrapping it around her.
“Why?”
“Because I’ll be sad when you leave.”
She huffs a laugh. “You arenotgoing to be sad when I leave.”
“I already know I will be.” I’ll be thinking about her, wondering what if.
She nudges her shoulder into me, and I wrap my arm around her, squeezing her into my side. “Answer this: What’s the significance of the scorpion tattoo?”
“That I’m a bad bitch who’s used to fending for herself.”
I hum, sad she has to wear that mask. “What’s it protecting?” I ask, pulling her onto my lap, repositioning the blanket around her shoulders.
“What do you mean?”
“The scars. Why do you have them?”
“No.” She tries to squirm out of my embrace. “I’m not talking about that.”
I cup her face with both my hands. “I want to know,” I say earnestly. She scrunches her face. “I’m a stranger. You can tell me without considering anyone else but yourself in how you talk about it.”
“Confession kink is a new one for me.”
“Baby girl,” I scold, lightly swatting her ass.
She shakes her head.
This guarded reaction only has me more curious. So, I decide to be vulnerable for a moment.
“My son has scars like that,” I share, staring into her eyes. “Because he didn’t want to live anymore, and I … I’ve never understood that.”
“I wasn’t trying to die. That was never the intention.”
My son was. Not wanting to turn sixteen. My first reaction was wrong. That I’d spoiled him. That he’d lost touch with reality. It took me too long to realize the pain he was in—from losing his mother, from not feeling seen. Still, I don’t understand why he thought death was the best option.
“I was trying to …” She trails off, and I pull her into my chest, hugging her tight. “I don’t know … control the pain.”
I pull her by the back of the neck, dragging her face closer to me so I can kiss her forehead. “Tell me who to kill,” I say after she leans back, assuming the worst, ready to call Jan with whoever’s name comes out of her mouth.
She huffs a laugh. “It’s not like that. My dad died when I was fourteen, then my mom got remarried way too fast, and I fucking hate my stepdad.”
“Tell me to kill him,” I whisper, wanting to make it better.
“Why would you kill for me?”
“Why wouldn’t I kill for you?”
She practically snorts. “Because you don’t know my name.”
“And you don’t know mine. Plenty of plausible deniability.”
Her eyes close as a smirk grows. “I’ll pass. For whatever fucking reason, my mom really likes the guy, and I don’t want her to go through another loss.”
“Good to know you give a shit about at least one person.” She pokes my chest, and I pull her down, crashing my lips to hers.
Tinsel. Tinsel. Tinsel.
