Page 35 of Brutal Knight

“Those scars,” she murmurs. “Where did you get them?”

I look down. It takes me a moment to identify what she’s looking at. There are several scars on my chest. I’ve had my share of injuries. It’s part of this life. The mafia isn’t a place where you can get away with doing a half-assed job. You either fight like hell, or you lose to a bullet.

Or a knife.

I’m just as curious as she is. I’m not sure why she’s interested. If anything, I’d think she would avoid signs of violence. But maybe I’m wrong.

“Knife fight,” I say, pointing to the long scar.

“Oh.” She leans in a little, maybe subconsciously. I try not to move, letting her decide how much space to close.

She’s still looking, cataloging. There doesn’t seem to be any fear in her eyes, just something unreadable. Whatever it is, it’s getting her to loosen up, so I don’t care. I let her look and then continue, pointing as I go.

“This one’s from a broken bottle. It hurt like hell. That one was hard to patch up.”

“What kind of bottle?”

“I think it was bourbon.” I shrug. “I was trying to stay alive. I didn’t pay attention.”

Willow nods. She’s closer now. I wonder if she knows she’s moving or not.

I don’t want to break this moment, shatter whatever is happening right now. She’s moving closer, and that’s all that matters. I just have to make sure I don’t do anything to drive her away. I keep my voice steady and keep talking.

“This one’s a gunshot. I actually preferred it to the bottle.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. It was bad, but the bottle…it was a mess. Harder to deal with.”

Willow leans in. She seems to hang on to my answers, like she’s just as curious about me as I am about her.

I hope she is. I would like it if she wanted to know me. I want to know her. And if she knew more, maybe she wouldn’t be afraid of me. Maybe she’d even start to like me.

Somehow, in this moment, there’s a pull between us. I don’t know when it began, but I can feel it, drawing me toward her as she creeps slowly toward me.

This isn’t like the tension I felt when she fell to her knees, either. This is different. It’s more than a passing feeling, and this time, it seems like she feels it too.

Suddenly, I don’t know why I was trying to Google shit. I should be asking her. Just asking. My mind races as I search for something to ask her—anything innocuous, unlikely to trigger bad memories.

“I’ve had my fair share of scrapes,” I say carefully. “I had a cast on my left leg once. It was green, so I hated it. I prefer red. What about you?”

Willow shrugs. “I guess…I like blue. But not dark. Blue like hydrangeas. You know?”

“I do. There’s a lot at the park near here. Good place to have lunch. What’s your favorite food?”

I think the questions are working. It feels like Willow is comfortable, and as long as I share something private with her, she’s willing to share back.

Maybe this is it. Maybe we’re finally moving forward.

“Favorite?” Willow raises her eyebrows, searching the far wall as she thinks. “Well, I actually really love pot pie. I used to make it whenever I could.”

Her words are a bit halting, and I have a guess as to why it sounds like she’s not used to thinking about her favorite things.

Dmitri never would have cared. I’m sure no one’s cared about what she does or doesn’t like in years. I can’t imagine how it must feel. I wonder if she even knows what her favorite things are in some cases, or if she’s just trying to think of something.

It’s awful. Even after my parents died, I’ve always had my adoptive brothers. Their family took me in. I can’t imagine what it would be like to have no one on my side.

But Willow? Her father hasn’t materialized, even after Dmitri’s death. No one has appeared to check in on her. Rose didn’t even know her that well.

---