CHAPTER 15: Blood That Is Not His (Betty's POV)
"I will wait."
The words still hang in the air long after the door closes.
I stand in the kitchen. Alone. My face is wet. My hands are shaking.
He was beaten. Hungry. Locked in closets.
And he still made me coffee every morning.
I do not know how long I stand there. Minutes. Maybe more.
I walk to the living room. I sit on the couch. I wait.
Hours pass.
The sun sets. The room goes dark. I do not turn on the lights.
I just sit.
And wait.
The clock on the wall ticks. Every sound makes my heart jump. Every car outside makes me hold my breath.
Then I hear it.
A key in the lock.
The door opens.
Adrain walks in.
His shirt is dark. His face is pale. His hands are red.
Not his blood.
Someone else's.
He looks at me. He looks at the couch. He looks at the dark room.
"You waited," he says.
"I said I would."
He nods.
He walks to the bathroom. I hear the water run. I hear him washing his hands.
He comes back out. His shirt is gone. His chest is bare. The bandage on his side is clean. Luke must have changed it.
He sits on the floor across from me. His back against the wall.
Neither of us speaks.
The silence is heavy.
"What happened?" I ask.
He looks at me. His dark eyes. Empty.
"Nothing you need to know."
"That is not an answer."
"It is the only one you are getting."
I feel something rise in my chest. Anger. Fear. Something else.
"Whose blood?" I ask.
He is quiet.
"Adrain. Whose blood?"
"Someone who will not bother us again."
My stomach turns.
I stand up. I walk to the kitchen. I grip the counter.
I hear him stand. His footsteps. Slow. Heavy.
He stops behind me.
"Betty."
"Do not."
"You asked."
"I asked for the truth."
"You cannot handle the truth."
I turn around.
He is standing closer than I expected. His face is inches from mine. His dark eyes. His pale skin. His bloody hands.
"I have handled worse," I say.
"Have you?"
I open my mouth. Close it.
He is right.
I have not.
I have seen blood at the hospital. I have seen death. I have held hands while patients took their last breath.
But I have never seen blood on someone I know.
Someone who makes my coffee.
Someone who sat outside my door while I slept.
Someone I am starting to forget is dangerous.
"Who was he?" I ask.
"It does not matter."
"It matters to me."
He looks at me. Something shifts in his eyes. Something soft. Something scared.
"He was one of the men who have been watching you."
My blood runs cold.
"Watching me?"
"Your hospital. Your apartment. Your grandmother's house."
I step back. My hip hits the counter.
"You knew?"
"I did not want to scare you."
"So you let them watch me?"
"I handled it."
"By killing them?"
He is quiet.
"Adrain."
"By making sure they cannot watch anyone ever again."
I feel sick.
I push past him. I walk to the living room. I sit on the couch. My hands are shaking.
He follows me. He sits on the floor. Same spot. Same wall.
"I did not start this life," he says quietly.
I look at him.
"But I will end it," he continues. "For you."
I stare at him.
His dark eyes. His pale face. His bloody hands.
He is a criminal.
He is a killer.
He is my husband.
And I am not afraid.
That is what scares me most.
Not the blood on his shirt.
Not the men who were watching me.
Not the enemies who want him dead.
I am afraid of how little any of it bothers me.
Because when I look at him, I do not see a monster.
I see the boy who was locked in closets.
The boy who was hungry.
The boy who made me coffee.
I whisper to the dark room.
"What are you turning me into?"
He does not answer.
He does not have to.
I already know.
I am becoming someone who looks at blood on his hands and feels relief.
Because he came home.
Because he is alive.
Because he chose to come back to me.
And that is the most terrifying thing of all.