BORDEN 2 (16 page)

Emma

I spent the evening having a long hot bath, trying to comfort my aching body. More bruises crawled down my shoulder and upper arms. Bite marks around my collar bone and up my throat. I had taken a good chunk of hair out when I combed through it in the water, staring at the long strands he’d pulled out of my scalp as he fucked me. Even now, I was still bewildered that I liked the sight of it. The bruises, although easily misconstrued by a stranger’s eyes to be something far more sinister, were like little temporary trophies to me, reminding me of his pleasure. It was kind of deluded.

The man was a lunatic. I didn’t care. He was possessive and violent. I still didn’t care. He was jealous and rude, and he took what he wanted without fear or regret.
And I didn’t fucking care.
I fell into a light sleep with the last thought of how little I cared and how much it no longer bothered me that our relationship was built on a lot of dysfunctional crap a therapist would be bursting at the seams to dissect.

My eyes shot open at the sound of a door closing. I bolted upright in bed and looked around the room, unsure if hours had passed, or minutes. I looked at the clock on the night table. It was two in the morning and Borden’s spot on the bed was unfilled. More light noises caused my head to whip to the side and my heart to spike. I stared at the bathroom door, listening intently. I could hear clothing being torn off and dropped to the floor, and then the sound of the water from the shower head bursting.

It was Borden.

Of course.

No machete yielding man ready to murder me or anything.

I moved to the edge of the bed, straining to listen to his every movement; from the moment he stepped into the shower stall, to the glass door closing, I’d held my breath, wondering where he’d been after he’d dropped me off. I didn’t know what would compel him to go to the bathroom immediately upon coming home, and my curiosity got the better of me.

I slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the door, pressing my ear against it. I could faintly hear a grunt and a curse before the silence took over. I didn’t understand my hesitation, but I swallowed it down and turned the knob. The door swung open silently, and I caught him standing in the centre of the stall under the beating water. He was naked, and furiously cleansing himself.

I was about to call out his name when I saw what was coming off of him and circling the drain. It took a few full seconds for my brain to register it.

Blood.

I stopped dead in my tracks, staring at the red. Oh, my God, there was so much red. Was he hurt?

“Borden,” I said in panic, my heart beating full force.

He turned around, narrowing his eyes at me. “What are you doing up?”

“Why are you bleeding?” I moved to him quickly, opening the shower stall door to get a better look at his red hands.

“Go back to bed, Emma,” he ordered.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m not –”

“You’re
bleeding
!”

“It’s not my blood.”

I froze, my wide eyes flickering up to his vacant blues. I could feel the blood in my face drain, and I imagined what I must have looked like, all pale and in shock. He didn’t want to stare into my questioning eyes. He looked away instead and resumed washing himself like nothing had happened, like I wasn’t even standing there. But I knew he was still watching me from the corner of his eye. I could tell by the stiffness in his shoulders, by the slower movements in his hands under the beating water, that he was affected.

“What happened?” I asked quietly, trying not to feel queasy at the sight of more blood flowing down the drain. He didn’t respond. “I’m not going away until you tell me, Marcus.”

I closed the glass door and sat down on the toilet seat, watching him intently. He rinsed himself off, scrubbing beneath his fingernails, glancing at me every few moments as I waited for him. When he finally finished, he stepped out and didn’t bother with a towel. He stood in front of me, dripping wet, his beard now a few inches long, his hair curling over his forehead, water lines trailing down his face. He glistened all over, his black and grey chest tattoos prominent against his tanned skin.

“We’re going to bed,” he stated simply. “Come on.”

“No,” I stubbornly replied. “What happened to you?”

He fisted his hand for a beat. I caught the movement, and my eyes flickered between his fist and his angry face.
He’ll never hurt you.

“Marcus,” I whispered, catching the way his body began to tremble, that anger of his spiking alarmingly. I felt my fear climb, and I had to remind myself over and over again that he would never hurt me. He wasn’t like that, even though he scared me when he was this angry.

I hesitantly reached my hand out to him. “Marcus,” I said in a soft voice, “it’s okay.”

He took my hand and I pulled him down to me. He went to his knees, looking back at me with this disconnected look I couldn’t understand.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized swiftly, resting my other hand on his face. “I shouldn’t have pushed. I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me. Don’t get angry, Marcus. It’s not worth it.”

He didn’t react to my words. He was so distant. Something was wrong, and I didn’t know how to fix it. I let go of his hand and rested it on his face too. I stroked his bearded cheeks, trying my best to distract his anger with my touch.

“Hey,” I continued, “don’t go distant on me. Come back.”

Every time he looked away, I repeated my words, until his eyes were drawn back to mine. We stared at each other for what felt like forever, until slowly the anger he felt began to wean. His eyes gained focus, and he started to really look at me.

I smiled softly. “There we go. That’s the man I love.”

He inhaled sharply at my words, the blues of his eyes glistening. “I’m sick of it,” he hoarsely said. “I’m sick of it so much.”

“Sick of what, Marcus?”

“Sick of washing the blood from my hands.”

I swallowed hard at the pain in his voice. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” he replied vehemently, his lips quivering. “It’s fucking not okay. I can’t keep doing it. I thought I was numb. I thought I couldn’t feel anything, but every punch I gave tonight, I felt something inside me tear open. I felt this sick twisted feeling in my stomach, this fucking kind of remorse I couldn’t shake. The fucking realization I’m going to be doing this to people who cross me all my life; fighting them, torturing them, killing them, burying them and washing my hands clean of them. Washing the blood. Washing it away, but it’s still everywhere. I can see the red everywhere, and I can’t end it. I can’t fucking end it until I find this prick and tear him open.”

He was shaking. His face had gone pale, his lips turned blue. I quickly grabbed the towel off the hook behind the door and draped it over his ice cold body. Jesus Christ, his skin was freezing everywhere. Like he’d been washing himself in cold water.

“Let’s get you to bed, you’re tired,” I told him, feeling shaken by his words. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow when you’re thinking clearer.”

He gripped me by the shoulders, squeezing me tightly. “You’re not listening! I’m going to be doing this all my fucking life, Emma.”

“Then stop!”

“I can’t just fucking stop. People like me can’t stop. I’m stuck in this power, stuck fighting to stay on top. If I blink, I’m fucking dead. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, I hear you –”

“And you still want to stay? You still wanna be with a fucking target your whole life?”

“Marcus –”

“Answer me!”

“Yes!” I shouted, tears stinging my eyes.

“Why?”

“Because I love you.”

He dropped his arms and collapsed to the ground, his back against the wall. He banged his head back, glaring up at the ceiling as another wave of anger tore through him. Moments passed in silence. I watched him every second, wondering what the hell had happened earlier to make him this way.

“Your grandmother was right,” he finally whispered to me bitterly. “I couldn’t fucking protect Kate. How the hell can I protect you? How can I save you from all this bullshit, Emma?”

I shook my head at him. He didn’t get it. “You
can
protect me and you have. Graeme and Hawke have never let you down. You didn’t have the support then as you do now, and I know what I’ve gotten myself into. I’m willing to live this way. It’s just…I’m doing this because I get to be with you and…I don’t want to be rescued, Marcus. I just need to be loved.”

He looked vulnerable. Torn open. Conflicted. He swallowed hard and said, “Years ago when I used to really hurt people, I’d shoot up after. It got bad when Kate died. That’s why I need Hawke. He’s there. He’s always been there to clean it up for me when it got too bad. He made me put the heroine away. He made me do clean kills and had the guys do the really dirty work. Tonight I was without him, and tonight I tortured a guy, and I had no way to get this feeling to go away.” He paused and finally looked at me, his warring face cutting holes through my chest. “And then there’s you. You see my ugly side, you see me like this, fucking split open, a man washing his hands clean of somebody’s else’s blood, and you still stay. You…don’t fucking leave for one second, and I bet you haven’t even thought it too, huh?”

I blinked back tears. “No.”

“Because you love me.”

“Yes.”

“Fuck.” He shook his head, his face pained. “You rip my heart open. You fucking rip it apart, Emma.”

“Would you rather I didn’t?”

“I’m addicted to it, doll. I fucking love you for it. I fucking love every inch of you, and there’s not one inch of you I deserve.”

My heart squeezed in my chest. I felt lightheaded by his words. I moved to him quickly and wrapped my arms around his torso. I held his cold body to me, burying my face into his chest to silently cry. It mattered so much to me that he loved me. They were happy tears, and he wrapped his arms around me, comforting me when I should have been the one comforting him after his breakdown.

“This man after us is bad, Emma,” he gravely told me a few minutes later. “He’s very bad.”

“Who is he?”

“His name is Terry Mulligan and he’s powerful. He ran the streets decades ago before he got locked up for murder when someone on his side sold him out.”

“You’ve never heard of him?”

“The city got run by so many gangs, I didn’t look that far back. There was no reason to. I’ve stayed focused on the present.”

“Why is he back?”

“He got out of prison. He had two step-sons operating on the small side when he was locked up. They made enough to make it by, waiting for their old man to come out. Turns out he has a lot of people on his side that have been waiting for him. Which means he still has a lot of money locked up somewhere.”

I frowned in confusion. “Why is he making himself known like this?”

“The step-sons, they were the brothers I killed for Kate’s murder.”

“Oh, my God,” I whispered.

“He’s trying to fuck with me. Doing the same M.O. the brothers used on me. He wants his revenge. He has a thing for revenge. He wanted the man that screwed him over left untouched so he could personally kill him when he got out, and he did. He hunted him down hours after he got out and plucked him off slowly. He’s got an itch for torture. Takes it slow, stretches it out for weeks until the man is so weak he can barely move, and then he releases them and hunts them down like animals. He likes to play, and that’s a level of fucked up that I’m not even familiar with.”