Page 66 of True Bastard
Firestride moved fast, blocking me from their view as I clung to his cut, my head buried against his chest, tears streaming down my face.
“Get her the fuck out of this city,” Detective Powell ordered as I heard the front door open. “I will call if I learn anything new and, Tyrone, call Mom before she shows up on your doorstep.”
I flinched when the door slammed shut.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Firestride
She hadn’t said a damn word since we left her house. Not even when we stopped for lunch at Frankie’s Diner on the north side of Rapid City. She didn’t eat, didn’t drink; she just sat there and stared out the window, staring into nothing.
I didn’t speak as I followed closely behind her, my jaw clenched so tight I thought it might shatter. I could feel the tension in the air as I quietly made my way through the clubhouse, each step echoing with the weight of everything that had happened. I watched her intently for clues, her silence heavy, thick with fear as I waited for her to say something—anything—that might help me make sense of the nightmare unfolding around me.
I didn’t know what to do.
Should I talk to her? Leave her alone? What?
Instead, I stood there, unmoving as she walked up the stairs, disappearing from my sight.
“Shouldn’t you go with her?” Wanderer asked.
“And do what?”
“I don’t know, maybe talk to her?”
Looking at my brother, I frowned. “About what?”
“Jesus, man,” Carver groaned. “You can’t be that stupid. Kitten just learned that someone she cared about was mutilated,cut into fucking pieces for some sick bastard’s pleasure, and you honestly have no idea why she’s not talking? She’s your woman, asshole. For once in your fucked-up life, be a human being and not the Bastard we all know you to be.”
Carver’s words, blunt and brutal, landed like a blow. I was supposed to be the one who protected her, who understood her pain, yet I had subjected her to more of it. Her silence wasn’t just fear; it was the quiet agony of a soul that had been pushed past its breaking point. The thought of her alone, wrestling with the horrors of her past and the trauma of her present, was a raw, exposed nerve.
I finally pushed myself to move. The familiar scent of her pulled me toward the stairs. Each step was a journey into the unknown, a hesitant approach to a woman I had claimed, terrorized, and, in a twisted way, come to care for. The carefully constructed walls of my own hardened heart had cracked, revealing a landscape of vulnerability I was still struggling to navigate. I wanted to speak, to offer solace, but the words caught in my throat, choked by years of ingrained silence and the brutal realities of our world.
Reaching my door, I hesitated, my hand hovering over the cool metal. I knew she wouldn’t welcome me, not after everything. But the idea of her enduring this nightmare alone was a pain sharper than any physical wound. Taking a deep, shaky breath, I pushed my door open, the soft groan of the hinges a stark contrast to the roar of our engines—a sound that had always meant freedom, but which now felt like a death sentence.
She was in the corner, a small, huddled figure beneath the oppressive grandeur of my room, the last bit of the sun’s rays catching the tear tracks on her face. She looked up, and in those turquoise eyes, I saw not just fear, but a flicker of something that refused to be extinguished. A fire, banked but not gone. And inthat moment, I knew I had to tread carefully, for her sake, and for my own.
I stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind me, unsure if the gesture was for her comfort or my own. The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating, punctuated only by the faint sounds of traffic outside. For a long moment, I simply stood there, trying to find the right words—any words—that might bring her even the smallest measure of peace.
“Kyllian.” My voice was a rough rasp, a plea that felt alien in this world of hard edges and sharper words. I waited, my breath catching in my throat, for any reaction. A flinch, a glare, a curse. But she remained there, a small, huddled figure in the corner, the remnants of the sun’s rays painting her fragile form in shades of gold and shadow. Her eyes, those turquoise pools that had once held so much fire, were now dulled, like embers slowly dying. Yet, even in their defeat, a spark remained, a stubborn refusal to be extinguished.
I took a tentative step closer; the floorboards groaned a protest beneath my weight. Each sound seemed amplified in the oppressive silence, a testament to the tension that crackled between us. I wanted to apologize, to beg for forgiveness, but the words felt inadequate, flimsy shields against the magnitude of my transgressions. All I could offer was my presence, my silent plea to be allowed to share her burden of this darkness.
I watched as a single tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek, a stark testament to the pain she suffered, the pain I had inflicted. It was a wound that would never truly heal.
I took another step, the distance between us shrinking, the air heavy with unspoken words. My own carefully constructed walls, built over years of brutal self-preservation, felt like they were crumbling, exposing a raw, vulnerable heart I had long tried to ignore.
I was a man forged in fire and betrayal, a Bastard to the core. But looking at her, at the quiet devastation etched onto her face, I knew that this fire, the one she’d ignited within me, was both my salvation and my damnation. I could no longer deny the truth that had been burning within me for weeks, a truth I had tried to outrun, to extinguish, but which now blazed with an undeniable intensity.
I was in love with Kyllian Ward.
Emotions warred within me—guilt, longing, a desperate need for redemption. The silence was a canvas upon which every regret, every fleeting hope was painted in vivid streaks. I kneeled beside her, careful not to intrude, but unable to stay away. For once, I let myself reach out, my hand hovering inches from hers, offering comfort without asking for forgiveness. “I’m here,” I whispered, my words barely more than a breath, but heavy with all the promises I couldn’t yet make.
For a moment, Kyllian didn’t move. The silence between us felt endless, a fragile thread stretched tight with every heartbeat. Then, slowly, she raised her eyes to meet mine, and I saw something shift—a tremor of trust, tentative and wary. Her lips parted, the beginning of a question, or maybe a confession, but the words died with a trembling breath. I stayed close, letting her feel the steadiness of my presence, hoping it might anchor her in this storm.
Finally, with a voice barely louder than the hush of dusk, she whispered, “Why?”
Her question lingered in the air, heavy and raw, demanding an answer that would cost me everything.
