Left Field (New Hope #4)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Blake

The sound of the party downstairs is dampened by the door to my bedroom. It's a strain on my ears to listen for the clinking of ice in a glass, the chatter of my acquaintances, and the dull thud of music. I sit on the leather chaise, keeping my expression blank while Grace applies the finishing touches on my skeleton makeup. I don't know how some people wear foundation every day—it feels like I've got a wet tissue pressed against my skin.

Grace cants her head, examining her work. Pretty, pretty boy, she signs.

"I don't think the King of Shadow is supposed to look pretty," I comment.

Doesn't matter who you pretend to be, Blakey-poo. She smirks, raising a brow. You will always be pretty.

My sister and Olivia have used that adjective to describe my looks since I was seventeen. The last thing I wanted to hear at that age was, 'You're such a pretty man.' They've since continued their combined efforts to annoy me, but it no longer has an effect. Everyone has their preferences. Some women like the rugged, tattooed, burly aesthetic. Others prefer clean, calculated, sharp. Fortunately, the person I love fancies the latter.

Hey, Grace signs, tilting my chin. She's shorter than me, so I'm forced to peer down at her. Her smile is gone, and in its place is understanding.

I sigh. "How'd you know I was thinking about her?"

She points to my eyes, wiggling her two fingers. I lost you in there.

I've been doing better, but better than drunk on the floor isn't much of an improvement. Whenever I've killed, it takes mental preparation to shut off my emotions—to become a shell of myself, with a single purpose. Ironically, I've used that same process to soften the blow of losing Lucy. I've gathered the agony and grief, shoving it into a dark corner in my mind in an attempt to get through each day. My purpose isn't to kill anyone, but to survive myself.

Despite my efforts, every night before I drift to sleep, I remember that hand on my shoulder, tugging me away from Cole. I recall turning without looking, and shoving the small body across the room. I see her on the floor, both horrified by what I did to her father and shocked by what I did to her.

"I promised I'd never hurt her," I whisper.

The only thing harder than forgiving someone, is forgiving yourself, Grace signs, reaching up to give my hair a tug. Loving her so deeply makes you more vulnerable than you've ever been.

"I hate feeling like this."

Would you take it back? she asks, eyes wide. Everything that happened between you two, the good and the bad. Would you change any of it? Do you wish you'd never met her?

I shake my head, aghast at the suggestion. "Absolutely not."

Grace nods, empathetic. That's what I thought.

Just then, her phone dings with an incoming text. She swipes it from the entertainment system, reading the message.

Payton just got here, she signs to me, organizing the makeup on the ground. I'm going to find him.

Her husband had a game in New Orleans earlier today, so he arrived on a different flight. I'm thankful they could make it at all. Halloween is my holiday, as I'm the designated creep. Mom and Mason took over Thanksgiving for my grandparents after our family became too large for their modest home. Aidan and Olivia have an ice rink during winter, so they claimed Christmas—as well as any other holiday they can get their greedy hands on. Since they have a litter of offspring, they usually win the proverbial coin toss.