Page 78 of Painted Scars
I huff a breath into his neck. “So, you’re a grumpy Robin Hood?”
Grumpy Daddy pinches my ass. “Something like that, only my arrows are sharper and more accurate. And I don’t do tights.”
“What did they do to you to run you underground?” I want to know his story and what prompted him to become a shadow.
He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Stonewalled me at every turn when I looked where I shouldn’t.” His voice hardens into stone.
“Who did you look into?” My search for answers is getting warmer.
His helmet slides to the left, indicating he’s reluctant to give details. This is hard for him. Cracking open your past is tapping into a well of pain. I give him time and rub his bicep through the leather.
He finally peels back another layer. “I used to dig into other people’s messes. Lies. Manipulations. Fraud. Infidelity. Disputes. People came to me when official channels went dead.”
I dig further for the truth. “Did you work for the law or government?”
“Private investigator.” Grumpy Daddy shuts that line down fast. “When I saw you in trouble… old instincts don’t die easy.”
“When you pull at certain threads, the truth turns ugly.” We have that in common. I unearthed information about Blackthorn that put me on his radar.
“I got too close to the rot and where the handshakes turn bloody, and that’s when they came for me and my family.” He exhales slowly, like pain snags in his chest.
Rational me wells with pity. Book Girlie me wants to stab the people who hurt him.
“I’m sorry for everything you lost. That’s why you went underground?”
“Yes,” he replies.
“You don’t have to keep that thing on here.” I trace the smooth lines of his helmet. “No one’s chasing us up here.”
He finally faces me. “The people I went up against don’t forget a face, and I can’t let anyone close to the crossfire.”
My chest stings that he still doesn’t trust me. I try something on a personal level. “You know what I look like.”
“My father taught me that trust is earned.” He grinds his jaw. “I learned the hard way that it comes with a knife in the back. Loyalty is traded like a commodity.”
“A cynical perspective.”
“I call it realistic.” His voice drops like a stone in water.
I swallow around it, unsure what to say to grief that’s chained in darkness.
“The man my father raised is gone.” Each word ricochets like a bullet on rock. “The Romans turned me into someone who watches from rooftops, lives in shadows, my name erased, my new purpose to be the ghost they can’t kill.”
I look at him. Really look at him. The helmet. The armor. His wounds stitched into silence. Trauma changes you into something you don’t recognize but are forced to accept as the new normal.
My breath stills. He’s not just hiding from them, he’s protecting all of us. “How do you live like that?”
“I don’t.” His palm makes another pass of my arm. “I survive. And I’ve forgotten what softness and vulnerability feel like.”
I link our fingers together. “You’re in luck, Grumpy Daddy. I’ve got enough softness and vulnerability for both of us. I’ll loan you some, interest-free.”
He doesn’t take the bait, remaining stoic, hell-bent on vengeance. “Abuse of power changes a person. How did the Romans change you, Glitter Bomb?”
Years of pain, shame, and guilt rise in my throat. I swallow it down.
“It turned me into someone who doesn’t sleep without triple-checking the locks.” My voice cracks, and I swallow the rising lump.
I grip the hem of my sundress and tug it lower, covering skin I deliberately chose to show. My other hand pulls the bust tight to hide that too.
