Chapter Thirty-Six
Breen stiffened in his chair, his radar knotting into such a fibrous lump of pain he nearly groaned.
I killed my sister.
He stretched his chin forward, trying to open his airway wider so he could breathe through the searing agony. “Monumental hurt” might have been a very large understatement. He pressed a fist to the middle of his chest and kneaded the spot. Probably words didn’t exist bad enough to describe how much his woman was hurting right now.
Karrell gently put a box of tissues in Charlize’s hands. “What happened?”
Charlize clutched the box. “We…we…”
Breen kept his hand on the armrest of Charlize’s chair. She seemed to be staring at it.
Charlize’s expression glassed over, and she began to speak in a weird monotone. “My brother, sister, and I were playing at a park. I was in charge of them. I was eight, Benjamin, six, and Olivia, four. We were playing a game of freeze tag. I was in a mad chase after my brother—he was impossible to catch. When I finally tagged him, I looked around for Olivia.”
Breen’s eyebrows felt tight on his forehead. He was watching Charlize carefully while managing to draw in a breath every other try. Even though her voice had that weird, flat quality to it, there was a serpent slither of panicky mania beneath it.
“Olivia had wandered off. She was heading for some flowers across the road, and I hollered at her to stop. I ran after her and kept screaming. Stop! Stop! There were no fences around the park, nothing to keep her from crossing the street, and…” Charlize’s blond curls shimmered; she was trembling. “There was…was…” A muffled moan spilled out of her.
Breen felt the muscles in his jaw bunch. He was biting his teeth together.
“There was a truck coming.”
Oh, shit.
“I ran after Olivia as fast as I could, so fast, but…but… I wasn’t fast enough. She…” Charlize lifted her head and looked at the two of them—Breen, then Karrell. Her expression was foggy and confused and too young. “I don’t understand what happened. Olivia…she was there, then the truck hit her, and she just…disintegrated.”
Karrell’s brow knitted.
“How does that happen?” Charlize asked, thin and high. “I mean…there was only blood.” She clawed her fingernails across the tissue box. “So much blood.”
Breen closed his eyes. His stomach went away. He actually couldn’t feel it anymore.
“So you need to stop being nice to me.”
He snapped open his eyes and glanced over. And, yeah. Charlize had directed that comment at him.
“Now you know who I am, so you need to stop.”
He surveyed her eyes, her jaw, the tip of her chin. “Who do you think you are?” he asked.
Charlize hissed air between her teeth. “Olivia died. She never came back, and it was because of me. Do you hear what I’m saying? Are you listening?”
“Yes.”
“I killed my sister.”
“No you didn’t. Your sister died from an accident. You—”
“Don’t!” She lurched to the edge of her chair, the tissue box bobbling on her lap. “I was in charge of Olivia,” she ground at him. “Don’t you dare try to let me off the hook.”
He could see Charlize’s legs visibly shaking. His own legs felt funny, like his muscles had gone too elastic, and now everything was unstable. “You’re asking me to sit here and blame you for a crime you didn’t even commit. I won’t do that. You’re not a murderer.”
“I am!” she screamed. “I killed her.” She hurled the tissue box at him.
He blocked. The box bounced off his forearm.
Charlize flew out of her chair.
He didn’t register she was attacking him until he saw her fingernails curved into claws, and by then his split-second delay cost him. He couldn’t stop her forward momentum from doing its thing—her body slammed into his and knocked him over backward. They hit the floor together, the chair shooting out from underneath his ass and zipping across the floor, Charlize bouncing on top of him. Air blasted out of his lungs.
In a frantic churn of legs, Charlize scrambled to get on top of him, and even before she’d locked herself into a full mount, she was flailing a barrage of slaps at his face. Or trying to—she didn’t land any. He was too fast for her. Dodging the first two blows, he stole between the next ones and grabbed her wrists.
Cursing, she struggled against his hold, but she couldn’t break free.
He had her trapped. She was stuck here in this therapy room, feeling all her shit.
He saw the moment she completely broke. The line of her mouth cracked, hysteria crowded onto her face, then she threw back her head and screamed. It was a long, howling, feral scream full of despair and fury and debilitating remorse, and if he lived to be three hundred, he would never forget that sound. It punched a fist straight through his radar into his heart. He couldn’t stop his face from wrenching in abject anguish. Real men don’t cry.
Fuck you, Dad!
He quick-rolled with Charlize and dumped her onto her back, pinning her hands on either side of her ears. He leaned his weight into her, probably too much, and yelled, “You were just a kid! It wasn’t your fault.”
Charlize sucked air in at hyperventilation speeds, one breath on top of the other with no break in between—hahhahhahhah.
“Where was your fucking mother, anyway, huh? She was the one who was supposed to be watching her own damned kids, not you.”
Charlize stared up at him, showing him her little girl’s eyes, a little girl whose under-the-bed monsters had been the meanest and baddest out there.
A surge of protectiveness pumped through him, spraying grids across his vision. Vengeance lurked like a shadow-beast at the corner of one grid: the male Vârcolac’s primal need to hunt down and destroy anything—person, place, or thing—that dared to hurt his mate. Damn him, he was going to kill something out there if he wasn’t careful.
Panting, he looked at Karrell. A little help here, maybe?
The therapist hadn’t moved from her seat. She just sat there, calmly studying the two of them, not offering a single hint about the current state of her thoughts. If it was a common occurrence for Karrell’s clients to end up tangled on the carpet during couples counseling, then maybe she needed to reevaluate some of her techniques…not that she didn’t already own enough fucking books on the subject.
Without a word, Karrell rose from her chair and walked around to the other side of her desk. She picked up the phone and dialed a couple of numbers.
Breen observed everything she did with hyperfocus. Beep, beep—ring—click.
“Donree? Hi, it’s Karrell. I saw Hannah Crişan downstairs earlier with her daughter. If they’re still around, could you—? Oh, they’re right there? Perfect. Could you please ask them to come to my office right away? Thank you.” Karrell hung up and looked at Breen and Charlize. “We have company coming, you two.” She sounded like a kindergarten teacher. Clean up the blocks and the clay, kiddos, it’s visitor time!
What the hell was going on?
Breen hoisted himself to his feet, bringing Charlize up with him.
There was a knock at the waiting room door. Karrell went to answer it.
With an arm fastened around Charlize’s waist, Breen kept her locked against his side. They stood beside the therapist’s desk and waited, both of them practically vibrating.
Karrell returned, followed by Hannah and her daughter, Kristara. Both mother and child had their golden hair tied into pigtails.
Hannah Crişan had the distinction of being the first Dragon female ever brought into the community. She was also the first to give birth to a living Mixed-blood child, a boy, Ællen, whose successful entrance into the community had given them all a lot of hope for continued Vârcolac survival.
Kristara was Hannah’s second child.
After introducing the two new arrivals to Breen and Charlize, the therapist said to Kristara, “Charlize, here, was interested in seeing some of your drawings.” She gestured at the sketch pad the young girl held clutched to her chest. Then she explained to Charlize, “Hannah’s two eldest children are taking art lessons from Thomal. Ællen creates comic books, and I believe you”—the therapist regarded Kristara warmly—“draw portraits, isn’t that right?”
Kristara nodded. She flipped open her sketchpad and stepped forward, showing the top page to Breen and Charlize. “This is Mommy.”
It was actually pretty good.
Charlize smiled weakly as Kristara flipped from one page to the next, showing all five of her siblings.
If grayish dots hadn’t been jumping across Breen’s vision and his heart currently trying to come out his nose, he probably would’ve really liked the picture show.
“Wow,” the therapist enthused. “You have lots of brothers and sisters. How old are you now, Kristara?”
“Eight.”
“Eight,” the therapist repeated, glancing pointedly at Charlize.
Breen felt a tremor run through her.
“Almost nine.” Kristara added, puffing up a little.
“You’re getting big.” Then the therapist added to Hannah, “Is Kristara doing chores at home now?”
“Oh, absolutely. Kristara’s a great helper.” Hannah set a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “She washes the dishes with me and takes out the trash.”
“Does she babysit her brothers and sisters?” Karrell asked.
“What? Oh, no.” Hannah chuckled. “Not yet. She’s too young. Maybe in a few more years.” She observed her daughter with affection.
Karrell admired Kristara’s pictures some more, then thanked the two for coming, and mother and daughter left.
The therapist leaned back against her desk, her arms crossed loosely over her chest. She regarded Charlize solemnly. “Your image of yourself at eight years old is of a girl much older than Kristara, isn’t it?”
Charlize’s nostrils fluttered. She nodded shakily.
“Guilt has warped your memory into something quite unfair, I think.” Karrell pushed off her desk, walked around it, and sat down. “According to the American Academy of Pediatrics, a child shouldn’t be left home alone until she’s eleven or twelve years old. And that means caring for herself, not others.” Karrell folded her hands on her desktop. “I realize you were undoubtedly very mature for your age, Charlize, but still, you were a child. You should have been able to play a game of freeze tag without any more worries than running down that wild brother of yours.” Karrell paused. “Your mother blamed you for Olivia’s death, didn’t she?”
Charlize was really pale now. She nodded again, shakier.
Breen kept his arm secured around her waist.
“I’m not surprised,” Karrell said. “I believe your mother knew on some level that the accident was her fault. Like Breen said, she should have been watching her own children. The horror of her mistake was too much for her to bear, so she put her failure as a mother on you, made you feel like the failure, like you weren’t good enough. And, unfortunately, you accepted those messages as gospel—understandably, since you were a child. But then do you know what happened? You kept trying to be good enough. Out of guilt. As penance.” Karrell’s voice quieted. “And to this day, you’re still trying. You’re still running across that park, Charlize. Literally, you became a marathon runner, and figuratively, you’ve been running away from—or pushing away—anyone who could make you happy. Because you damn well don’t deserve it.”
Charlize eyes went very wide, showing a lot of the white.
“You probably also never properly grieved Oliva’s death, so loss has remained an extra-difficult concept for you to deal with. Being married to a man who fights for a living has no doubt added to your turmoil.” Karrell smiled slightly. “Luckily Breen is good at his job.”
Breen swallowed heavily.
Karrell’s smiled turned sympathetic. “But don’t you think it’s time to start seeing this tragedy from an adult’s perspective, Charlize, to come to terms with what actually happened? Then the memory won’t control you. You’ll always feel sorrow over what happened, of course, but it won’t destroy you. And that would be nice, because I, personally, believe you do deserve to be happy.” Karrell sat back.
Charlize didn’t answer. She just made a small hiccupping sound and turned toward Breen.
He opened his arms, and she fell into his embrace, buried her face against his chest, and wept.