Does It Hurt?: Chapter 20

For the millionth time this morning, Sylvester shifts, casting a nervous glance toward the front door. I have already asked what his problem is, but of course, he just waved a hand and insisted he was fine.

Not caring how rude it was, I walked up to the front door and swung it open, convinced something was happening. All I could see was dense fog, and after standing there for a few minutes, I sat back down. Ever since, I’ve been staring at the old, lying fuck, hoping I’m making him more uncomfortable.

“Sounded like someone was crying last night,” I say casually. He pauses, then turns to look at me. “Were there any women that died here, too?”

Sylvester stares down at his coffee, as if the black sludge he drinks is going to provide him with a suitable lie.

I haven’t forgotten about the woman standing in the ocean soon after we arrived. She disappeared without a trace, but she lingers in the back of my mind.

It doesn’t help that things have been going missing. Yesterday, I had been reading Wuthering Heights and left it on the end table. When I came down this morning, it was gone, and I haven’t been able to locate it since. Not under or between the cushions and not on the bookshelf. Sylvester seemed clueless as to where it went, deepening my suspicions.

Seems like he’s been hoarding more restless spirits than he lets on.

“My daughter did. Trinity.”

My brows shoot up my forehead.

Okay, I wasn’t expecting that one.

“One of the reasons why my wife left me. The grief was too much for her, and she blamed me for Trinity’s death.”

I nod slowly, studying him closely. It’s not that I don’t necessarily believe him, but there’s just something about Sylvester that makes me question every single word out of his mouth.

“How did it happen?”

He sniffs, glancing at me. “S’pose it’s only fair since ya’ll shared so much with me last week,” he mutters.

I just manage to bite my tongue. That wasn’t a sweet moment where we all had a heart-to-heart and made fucking friendship bracelets.

“Trinity wasn’t happy here. Wanted to leave, but we was tryin’ to make it work as a family. I knew it would happen eventually. She was a teenage girl and felt like she was missin’ out on life. My wife and I were worried, but I was still working at the time and couldn’t just up and leave. Raven wanted to take her somewhere else, but Trin was only sixteen and couldn’t stay anywhere by herself, so that meant they would all be leavin’ me. Kacey was fourteen and didn’t want to stay here with ’er old man, either.”

He ambles toward the island and leans against it heavily, staring off into space and reliving the memory.

“We was fightin’ a lot. I didn’t want them to go. Trin decided to take matters into her own hands and hung herself outside the window.”

I turn to stare out the windows on either side of the front door, imagining what it must’ve been like to look over and see your daughter’s feet dangling right outside, swinging back and forth. It’s morbid as fuck, and I feel a pinch of sympathy for the old man.

“Raven left with Kacey two days later. Couple of months after that, the lighthouse shut down due to a newer and more advanced structure being built. Been alone ever since.”

“Why didn’t you go to be with them once it shut down?”

He’s agitated, his lips twitching and his fingers stroking his beard.

“They hated me, and I loved being here. I knew that if I left, ain’t none of us would’ve been happy with my being there.”

Maybe his wife and daughter would’ve forgiven him had he only made an effort and prioritized them, but it doesn’t matter now. And I’m not interested in therapizing the old man.

Sylvester meets my stare, guilt swirling in his eyes.

“She cried a lot.”

Then, he drops his gaze and ambles toward the stairs. I stare off into space as the clink of metal groans beneath his weight, slowly fading away.

My gaze cuts to the window again, and instead of looking from the inside out, I’m standing right outside the front door, a girl dangling from a rope. Then, the faceless girl fades into the image of Sawyer, her body swaying in the air. Another sad soul that found a different way out.

My throat closes, and it feels like a punch to the chest. I shake my head, pinching my eyes shut and rubbing them harshly with my finger and thumb to banish the fucked-up thought from my brain.

I’m not ready to admit why it’s so fucking hard to breathe.

The witch has done enough damage; the last thing I need is her needling her way into my head like a worm in an apple, eating at my common sense and self-preservation.

È una maledetta bugiarda, and I can’t look at her without being teleported back to that damn step outside the church, a priest at my side, consoling me because my mother lied to me, too. They both stole so much of my life from me and left without a backward glance. Without remorse.

Yet, the urge to go find her and fight with her again is almost unbearable. Growling in frustration, I swipe my hands over my hair, the strands longer than I’m used to. Seeing her is a bad idea. I still want to fucking throttle her, but fuck if I don’t want to kiss her, too. Even worse, I want to protect her while also wanting to protect myself from her.

After admitting what her brother did to her and seeing the raw pain in her eyes—the terror that one day he is going to catch up to her—the sadness that clings to her like a second skin makes so much more sense now.

She’s a wild animal that has entered survival mode and doesn’t know how to live any other way. And it’s driving me fucking wild. Mi sta facendo uscire pazzo, porca miseria.

The rage I felt in that moment of her confession was blinding, and not for a single fucking second has it let up since. All I can think about is how to make her pain go away. The near-obsessive need to search down the fucker and bash his head in until there’s nothing left is all-consuming.

He’s still haunting her, and all I can feel is rage because she’s fucking mine.

But that’s the goddamn problem, isn’t it? She’s made it more than clear she doesn’t actually want that. She will always bite the hand that feeds her because she’s more comfortable being starved when it’s all she’s ever known.

I’m charging toward the front door, swinging it open, and storming toward the cave before I process what I’m doing and why. I just… need to talk to her. I’ve had enough of the fucking silence.

I’m so lost in my head that I don’t even remember walking to the cave or getting down into it. But I draw short, confused when I realize she’s not in here.

“Sawyer?” I call, my voice bouncing off the stone walls and echoing.

She doesn’t answer. Instantly, all my furious thoughts come to a screeching halt, and my mind goes deadly silent. Something is wrong.

I call her name again, louder and more urgently, except she still doesn’t answer. My eyes frantically search around the cave, my head swiveling in every direction.

My eyes bypass a tunnel far in the back of the cave and then quickly snap back to it. I beeline for it, continuing to call for her. It’s darker back here and curses spill from my mouth because I don’t have a goddamn flashlight to see properly.

“I swear to fucking God, you better be alive,” I spit, coming up to a cavern that drops down several feet.

I can’t see anything from here, but I don’t have any choice but to feel my way down. I take it as slow as I’m physically capable of, which isn’t very slow when there’s a little siren who could possibly be hurt.

“Sawyer!” I call again, just as I reach the bottom. No answer.

Sweat beads along my hairline, despite how much cooler it is down here. I plant my hands along the cave wall and feel my way through. A blue hue begins to form, making it easier to see. I come out to another opening, glowworms scattered across the ceiling.

There.

My gaze instantly finds her, laid out on the floor and unconscious.

My heart drops. “Motherfucker.”

I rush to her, feeling like my chest is caved in as I crouch down and gently lift her head, blood instantly coating my hand. Head wounds can bleed profusely regardless of the severity, but I need to get her to the lighthouse and assess the damage properly.

“Cazzo, che cazzo hai fatto?” I ramble, immediately feeling for a pulse. It’s strong, and she’s breathing, but I have no idea how long she’s been out for.

“Wake up, bella. Let me see those eyes.”

She doesn’t move, and my panic deepens.

There’s a flashlight next to her fingertips, so I quickly grab it and switch it on.

“Sawyer, I need you to wake up,” I say, opening one of her eyelids and shining the light directly into it.

A groan filters from her mouth, and a moment later, she’s twisting her head out of my hold.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter, relief overcoming me when she mumbles, “What happened?”

“You fell. I need you to sit up so I can get us out of here,” I tell her, urging her up. She groans again but sits up.

“Come here, baby,” I whisper, gathering her tiny body against my chest. “I need you to hold on to me very tightly. Don’t let go.”

“Goddamn, I’m still not dead yet?” she whines, and Christ, I’m going to fucking spank her the second she recovers. “It feels like my head is splitting in half. Maybe I need to give it a few more seconds before the Lord takes me.”

Groaning, she slings her arms around my neck while I arrange her onto my back, her thighs coiled around my hips. She tightens them, crossing her feet while I stand.

Sweat coats my body like oil, dripping into my eyes and stinging them while I make my way back through the tunnel. I shine the light up toward the opening of the hole, mapping the best route to climb up with her on my back.

“Hold tight, baby.”

She attempts to tighten her arms, but her hold is weak as I ascend the rock wall. Sawyer’s head rests on my shoulder, flopping around as I jostle her, worrying me further. It couldn’t have taken more than thirty seconds to reach the top, but every second felt like too many.

Carrying her through the cave and out of the entrance is a blur. The cool air is a balm to my flushed skin, though the bright light pierces my eyes and forces me to stop until I can focus properly.

“Oh no, Enzo, I’m looking into the light,” she mutters, a teasing lilt to her tone.

“You’re not funny,” I snap, squinting against the harsh sun as I carefully make my way across the uneven terrain and get us onto the sand.

“I’ll get you to smile one of these days,” she murmurs. “Maybe you should do it one time before I die.”

“You’re not dying.”

“You sure? I think I hear Jesus talking to me.”

“Then you’re definitely not dying. Jesus would never talk to you.”

She snorts, then groans. “You’re right. Maybe it’s just your voice I’m hearing, and that’s my sign I’m going to Hell. You are the devil, after all.”

If I’m the devil, she’s fucking Lilith.

Finally, I reach the lighthouse, getting the door open and rushing her to the couch. Setting her down gently, I take off to find the first aid kit.

“You’re weirding me out,” she says when I return. I pause long enough to pin her with a glare.

“Didn’t I say you can’t get away from me? That means in death, too, bella.”

She crosses her arms, keeping silent as I get to work cleaning her wound. There’s a minor laceration across the back of her head, but it doesn’t appear to be too deep.

“What’s the diagnosis, doc?”

“You’ll be fine. Doesn’t need stitches, but you probably have a concussion.”

She sighs, opening her mouth to respond, but the creak of the metal steps cuts her off. Sylvester reaches the bottom floor, hobbles through the kitchen toward us until we come into view, stops to take one look at us, and then rushes over as quickly as his wooden peg will carry him.

“What happened to ’er?” he asks, crowding over her to inspect her injury.

“Give her some space,” I snap. Sylvester huffs but backs away.

“I fell,” Sawyer explains sheepishly, shrugging her shoulder. “’Tis nothing but a flesh wound.”

I cast a look to Sylvester. “I’m taking her upstairs. She has a concussion and needs to relax.”

“Well, all right then,” he agrees easily, stepping farther away.

Sawyer goes to stand, but I swoop her in my arms before she can take a step. A little gasp slips from her pink lips, and once more, that desire to taste them arises.

“I can walk.”

“You’ve proven you can fall, too.”

Her face twists into a snarl, aiming a glare my way. She looks like an angry kitten. This close, I can see how bright her eyes are, with a darker navy-blue outer ring.

A buzz forms beneath my skin, and now that I’m no longer distracted by her wound, having her this close is dangerous. It feels too fucking good, and rather than my typical anger, it terrifies me. I’ve faced far worse, yet a five-foot-nothing nymph is what brings me to my knees. I want her out of my fucking head, but she’s in too deep.

I feel Sylvester’s eyes burning into my back as I carry her up the stairs and into our room. When I set her down this time, it’s less gentle. I’m still angry she nearly killed herself, and the prospect of that is debilitating.

A puff of breath shoots from her lungs, and another glare is burning into my face.

“Thanks,” she mutters. “Call us even, I guess.”

I arch a brow. “Call us even for what?”

Her eyes swirl with an emotion I can’t put a name to.

“I saved your life, you saved mine.”

I frown. What the fuck is she talking about?

“Is this another one of your lies?”

Her features twist, and in a matter of seconds, the cute angry kitty grows into a fierce lioness.

“No,” she bites out. “Do you think you washed up on this shore by luck?”

I stare at her, processing her implication.

“You were knocked out cold, and I swam us here.”

What… the fuck.

I clench my jaw. I don’t know what the fuck I’m feeling, but whatever it is has my knees threatening to crash to the ground with reverence.

Tightening her lips, she turns her head away, and my eyes latch onto how her blonde curls have turned bright red on the back.

“You need to shower,” I say. She flicks her gaze at me, appearing affronted that I changed the subject.

I have plenty to say, and I will make sure she hears it, but only when I feel like I can speak without wanting to simultaneously stick my tongue down her throat.

Clearing her throat, she stands and begins to brush past me, but my hand lands on the flat planes of her stomach, stopping her in place.

I turn my head, a fire rising in my chest when I hear the little pants coming from her mouth and the goosebumps prickling her flesh.

“Let me help you with that, bella ladra.”