Page 68 of Shattered Souls

The moon casts shadows on the ground in front of me. I swear a figure leans around one of the houses, watching me as I enter the maze. The long stretch of hedges holds fond memories of terrorizing our little scarecrow. But now, all I see is a younger version of her, scared of men just like us. Was she scared? I mean, of course she was, but did she think it was him coming back to haunt her?

I don’t need to be a genius to put it together that she killed her father, I’m the first person that understands killing someone like that. But how am I supposed to admit my own? I said the words, I killed our mother and father. Both. Beat and stabbed them. But how can I admit the guilt that ate away at my bones for years to follow?

How does a man that enjoys killing people, enjoys watching their life-force spill between my fingers, admit that he was doubled over, vomiting as he watched his parents take their last breaths?

I can’t.

Not now.

“She’s asleep,” Hayze finds me sitting on one of the tables by the food trucks. He offers me a blanket, one that I accept and toss over my shoulders, and takes a seat beside me.

We just sit here, no words shared for minutes, hours, who knows. The truth lays heavy between us. I had no idea his abuse started at ten, two whole years of misery that he endured alone.

“I’m sorry, Hayze.” I sign, knowing it means more to him. His dark eyes jump to my hands, taking in my words and letting them settle.

“I never wanted her eyes on you.” He admits, and for the first time in fifteen years, I cry. The tears are hot on my cold cheeks, slipping down into the collar of my shirt and soaking the material.

Hayze throws an arm around my shoulder and pulls me into him.

“I’m so sorry.” Suddenly, I’m twelve again, begging Ronnie to forgive me for something I didn’t even cause—but, I was sorry nonetheless. “I never should’ve left you alone with her. How did I not notice? You were so different from me.” He chuckles, knowing damn well it’s true. I was so outgoing, life full of friends and girls, while he was closed off and just a recluse over all. He wasn’t fond of friends, and definitely not girls. Now I see he was sheltering them from his home life.

“I’d do it all over again. Killing them, running, the new identities—all of it.”

“I know you would,” he signs, making sure I can see his hands. “And I’d take the abuse again just so you didn’t have to.” Even after all this time, all the years of wishing it wasn’t us, and we would still make sure the other never had to deal with the opposite end of our trauma.

“I didn’t know about the vasectomy.” It makes my skin crawl to hear him admit that to Rayvn. She stole so much from her own child, and never once felt bad about it.

“I’m glad she did it. Well, now I am.” He watches his hands as he signs. “It was hard to come to terms with, not being able to start my own family if I wanted. But I very quickly found out that I didn’t want kids—or sex in general.” The question I’ve been wanting to ask him sits on the tip of my tongue.

“Does that mean?”

“That Rayvn was my first since Mom?” I nod solemnly. “Yes. She’s the first woman I’ve felt attracted to. But you know what they say, like calls to like. My shattered soul felt the pull towards hers, and now the three of us are woven into some sort of twisted, and almost healed, soul.” There it is, he’s adding me into the equation as if we’re going to live happily after ever, both dating her.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t do that, Synn,” Funny how I can hear the pleading just through his hands. He might not have a voice, but you can still hear his emotions through his hands.

“Do what?” I hug the blanket tighter around me, finally feeling the weight of the cold.

“Think you’re not good enough.” He looks at me, like really looks at me, and I hate how much of myself I can really see in his face. The way his brows pinch together when he’s conflicted or angry at me, and the way he gives a lopsided smile when he’s trying to be encouraging.

I’d have killed myself long ago if it weren’t for these similarities that look at me every time he does. If I took my own life, he’d see me in every mirror, reflection, or picture—it’s just not fair to him.

“She wants this, Synn, just as much as we do.”

“For how long? How long until she tires of us and favors one or tries to leave? We didn’t exactly meet her on great terms, and she’ll resent us one day for that.” We kidnapped her, murdered people in front of her, and kept her in a sensory deprivation box. We’re not exactly gold star men.

“Have you ever asked her?” I huff out a stressed breath, a billow of steam drifting off into the night. “She asked to go after you when you left. She wants you with her, with us. When I admitted that we agreed to share her, you should’ve seen it, her eyes lit up in a way I’ve never seen before.”

“What if I love her?” My chest caves in two at the admission. Love isn’t something that should be in my vocabulary. Love has never ended right, only in death or pain—or both.

“Then you tell her.” He shrugs. “I think I do as well. I’m sick, Synn. Every time I look at her, I feel a gnawing pain in my chest and stomach. She makes me laugh. She looks at me like I’m a good man—and we both know I’m not. I want to save her from this, but I need you there to do that.”

It was never love that I felt for Hayze. It was always deeper. Something that was just there from the start. I never had to feed or nurture the bond—it just existed. There’s been a tether between us, sometimes it’s taut and frayed with tension from being around one another all the time. But then other times, it’s loose and lax, just a reminder of our eternal connection.

The night of our parent’s death—murder—the tether snapped tight, making sure neither of us strayed far from the other. Right now, I can feel that invisible connection, the truth he shoots down it. And more importantly, the pleading want to make this work.

“Okay, I’ll make it work.” He playfully punches my arm, another lopsided smile shooting my way.