Destroyed

My face went slack as I drifted around the room, drinking in the sight of blades and killing apparatus, breathing in bronze and iron, metallic and sharp.

Clara piped up, dragging her damageable fingers along a wicked looking spiked mace. I almost had a heart attack before Fox carefully removed her hand and placed it by her side.

“You made this?” Her innocent voice rang around the room—a huge contradiction of purity compared to the barbaricness of what she touched. “Are you going to war? Who are you fighting?” She stilled, biting her lower lip. “Ohhhh, I get it. Is that how you got your scar? You’ve been to war.”

My heart glowed for my bright little girl. “Stop asking such prying questions, Clara. His scar is personal, and I doubt it’s a story he can tell easily.”

I glanced at Fox, and he unconsciously stroked the puckered skin on his otherwise perfect face. He had a five o’clock shadow which was unusual for him, and no hair grew where the skin had been damaged.

He blinked, shaking whatever memories haunted him away. “I might tell you that story another time, little one, but not today.”

Ducking to her level, he added, “I didn’t go to war, but I did serve time and obeyed orders I wished I didn’t have to.”

Clara’s face fell. “I’m sorry.”

Fox’s lips twitched into a small smile. “It’s not your fault.” His face darkened. “If you want to hear my story, Clara, you have to promise me you won’t be sad. It isn’t about fairies or mermaids, it’s about a little boy who had a family and was made to do bad things to them. It’s about a teenager who did things he’ll never be free of, and it’s about a man who wished he could rewind the past and start all over again.”

Clara nodded, blinking big soulful eyes. “I promise. I know bad things happen. I’m big enough to hear.”

He looked up, grey eyes delving into mine. “I’ll censor, but it’s still going to be hard to tell.” He stood up, coming toward me, but not reaching out. “Is that okay?”

Was it okay? Not really. I didn’t like the thought of Clara’s head being full of sadness, or things that might give her nightmares. I didn’t like that Fox had chosen my daughter to share his past with—but I also…

Shit, I trust him.

I trusted him not to go too far. To filter the gruesome and spin a story that Clara would believe would be fanciful and fantastical. Something released in me, some of the anger I felt disappeared, and I found myself falling once again for the damaged man before me.

“I trust you.” Three simple words, but they resonated with a new beginning. Somehow, I’d forgiven him yet again. I’d granted absolution for him stealing my daughter and turning my life upside down.

He sucked in a massive gust of air, eyes boring into mine. He didn’t need to say anything, I could read him clear as day. He vibrated with thankfulness.

“Just… be gentle,” I whispered.

He grimaced. “I’m trying damn hard to embrace that word every day.”

Clara moved closer to Fox, and I tensed, hoping she wouldn’t touch him. She must’ve been affected by what Fox did in the office more than she let on because she kept her tiny hands to herself. “Why don’t you like to be gentle? Did you never have a pet to learn how to be nice? I can teach you to be gentle. It’s not hard.”

I laughed softly. “It’s not that easy to teach a man to ignore a lifetime of training, Clara.”

Her face shot to mine, sadness tugging her mouth down.

I rushed to add, “But I know you help Fox a great deal.”

Clara scowled, one dainty foot stomped the floor. “His name is Roan, mummy. How many times do I need to tell you?”

Fox chuckled, smiling sadly in my direction. “I never told your mother what my first name was. She’s not used to calling me by it.” His large hand moved to ruffle her hair, but dropped just as quickly. “My first name is precious to me. I told no one, not even the men I grew up with. You were the first one I told.”

My heart burst. I never thought about a name being sacred or something to be hoarded. In my past, I traded names like I stole new clothing, never attached, always changing.

Fox sensed my train of thought and murmured, “My first name was the only thing I had left of my past before they stole everything from me. I kept it hidden, first in defiance, then in desperation. Only my little brother, Vasily, was allowed to call me Roan. And now Clara. And now… you.”

I swallowed hard, picturing a younger version of the scarred man in front of me. “You want me to call you Roan?”

He captured my heart and soul with his look. “Yes. It would mean a lot to me.”

Fox suddenly moved forward.

My back straightened, stomach flurried. He was close, so close, his white-grey eyes staring mournfully into mine. “Please forgive me for what I’m about to tell you. But if you can’t…I understand.”

Tearful prickles raced up my spine and I couldn’t speak. I nodded, aching to hug him, offer solace in my arms. For two days I kept my distance, harbouring my anger, not wanting to be weak when my first duty was to Clara, but it was no use. I wanted to help this man. I couldn’t stop—just like I couldn’t stop my feelings for him.

Fox’s nostrils flared, his lips parted, and every part of me throbbed for every part of him. Even though Clara would never be safe around him, I had a hard time ignoring practicality in favour of my heart.

And my heart wanted Roan.

Desperately.

I didn’t just want him physically; I wanted him mentally, emotionally, spiritually. I wanted to own every part of him and trade his life for mine.

Clara broke our moment with a cringe worthy question. “You have so many weapons. Have you used them?” She stroked a huge sword that looked as if it should be stuck in a rock in some storybook myth. Her voice was faint, but her question turned Fox to a statue. “Have you killed people before? Did they deserve it?”

Every question sent a dagger into my heart. Who knew that a kid with no life experience could have such perception? She read everyone like a picture book. All our sins and secrets might as well be tattooed on our foreheads.

Fox closed his eyes, an expression of deep regret and pain etched his features. Finally he opened them again. “I wish I didn’t have to answer your question, but I promised myself I would tell the truth.” Sighing, he added, “I’ve taken lives before. Some bad. Some deserving. But most were kind and gentle and didn’t deserve to die.” He looked up, freezing me in his stare. “But I didn’t do it willingly. You have to believe me.”