“I lost it,” he said. “I completely flew off the handle.” He met my eyes. “I killed them. The fucker who raped her, and the co-captains of the gang who’d set him up to do it.”
I swallowed, but I didn’t say anything. What could I say? That I understood? I did. That the bastards who would do that to a little girl deserved it? I sure as hell thought so, but I knew damn well the courts didn’t.
And I knew that Cole had to live with the consequences of his actions each and every day.
“I can’t even remember making the decision to do it, but I can remember with absolute clarity how good it felt to smash my fist into their flesh. To feel their bones shatter. To snuff the life from each of them. I liked it, Kat. Hell, I sought it out. I needed it. Because that was the only way to turn off the rage that had burst out of me like a goddamn geyser.”
“They tortured a child. You defended her. You stood up for her and went to the mat for her. And because you did, she’s grown up to be one hell of a woman.”
He didn’t say anything, but he seemed to draw in my words like oxygen, as if simply having them there to hold on to made everything else just a little bit easier to handle.
“I was caught, of course. If I’d been even halfway in my head, maybe I could have figured out a way to cover up what I’d done, but I couldn’t manage it in the state I was in. I was arrested. I was tried. I was convicted. And that’s how I met Evan and Tyler.”
“The scared straight camp? They sent you there even with three murder convictions?”
“I had the diagnosed impulse control issues—thank you, crack baby syndrome,” he said with disgust. “And there was an experimental program running through the system then. They sealed my record because I was a juvenile and under the terms of the program, if a defendant is later arrested for homicide, the sealed file can be opened and used as evidence in the adult homicide case.”
He shrugged. “In other words, I’ll never shake my past.”
“You don’t have to shake it,” I said. “You just have to live with it. Like everybody else on the planet. But it’s done, and it’s behind you. And didn’t you once tell me you preferred to live life moving forward?”
“That sounds like something I’d say,” he admitted. “That doesn’t necessarily make it true or smart.”
“Bullshit. You’re not going to kill anyone. Your past is sealed up and gone, and it’s going to stay that way. You just have to trust yourself to move forward. Or if you can’t trust yourself, then trust me. Because I trust you completely, and I’m a very smart woman.”
As I hoped, he smiled. But it faded quickly. “I can’t imagine killing anyone intentionally now,” he said. “But the darkness inside me hasn’t gone away. The impulse control issues that nailed me as a kid—as a teenager. They’re still all right there, and I know that any moment I can go completely off the rails. It’s like spending your life walking on dynamite.”
“But you don’t go off the rails, Cole. Don’t you see?”
“I’m fighting every damn day, Kat.”
“But that’s the point. You’re fighting. You’re winning.” I slid my arms around his waist and moved in close. “You have more control than you give yourself credit for.”
“Someday I’m going to lose that battle and seriously hurt someone.” He hooked a finger under my chin and tilted my head up. “What if it’s you?”
“Not possible. For one thing, you’re not going to lose it. You may not see how strong you are, but I do. For another thing, the only way you’ll hurt me is if you leave me.” I swallowed, feeling suddenly overwhelmed by emotion. “Don’t leave me, Cole,” I said, knowing that those words were stripping bare my soul. “Please don’t ever leave me.”
“No,” he said, pulling me close. And though the word that he said was “never,” in my heart, I knew that the message was, I love you.
twenty-two
Katrina Laron—domestic goddess.
That’s how I felt as I stood in the living room of my new house surrounded by pails of paint, drop cloths, brushes, and rollers.
The movers were scheduled for the next morning, and I was hoping to at least get the living room painted so that once the furniture arrived I could assemble one room and feel as though I had accomplished something.
Not that I’d be completely done with that room. I’d still need to deal with the floors, getting curtains, fixing the window panes that seemed likely to stick no matter what the weather, and all the other wonderful, happy, irritating quirks that came with home ownership.
I’d had the place for a grand total of three hours, and I was already desperately, hopelessly in love.
And speaking of desperately, hopelessly in love, I heard the familiar rhythm of Cole’s footsteps crossing the front porch, and I turned in time to see him open the screen door and step inside.
He carried two wrapped presents tucked under his arm—one big and one small. His other hand held tight to a toolbox on top of which he was balancing a bundle of roses.
“For me?”
“No, I just like to carry presents and roses whenever I take my tools out. Makes the repair work seem more festive.”