I looked up, shaking my head. I’ll tell you, but not yet.

I hoped to avoid the subject to spare him. I hoped to avoid it, because I wasn’t strong enough to voice it. If I told another person, it made it real. I didn’t want to make it real.

Fox scowled and came toward me. Grasping my elbow, he lowered his head to mine. His breath sent shivers down my back as he whispered harshly, “Be prepared to talk after this, Hazel. I’m done being kept in the dark. I want to know. And you’re going to tell me every single thing you’ve been keeping secret.”

Before I could reply, he left the vault and disappeared.

My heart couldn’t calm down at the furious restraint in his voice. He was pissed and no way in hell did I want to deal with a pissed off Fox.

Clara and I followed, hanging back as Fox spent a few minutes dragging dinged up leather chairs toward the central fireplace. Grabbing a poker, he viciously stabbed the coal embers until happy yellow and orange flames came to life.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sucked in a heavy breath before deliberately shedding his anger and re-centring himself.

Holding out his hand, he ordered, “Come here.”

My heart couldn’t cope; I shuffled after Clara toward one of the chairs and sat heavily into the soft, springy cushion. Clara lost her fierce independence and instead of taking the other chair, she plopped onto my knee and snuggled. Together we sank into the leather, looking up at Fox. His scarred cheek danced with firelight; his body echoed with pain. Pain given to him by his past. Pain given to him by telling the truth.

His eyes locked with mine, and I didn’t know what he searched for. Acceptance, understanding, willingness to listen and not judge until the end? I didn’t know, but at least he no longer looked as if he wanted to tear me apart for keeping secrets from him. For now Clara’s impending demise was safe.

He held up his hands, bracing them like a traffic warden, displaying fleshy palms and callused fingers. “See that? The marks directly in the centre?” He leaned forward, so his hands were only a foot away from our faces.

Clara spotted the greenish-grey lines before me. “Yep. They’re faded. Do they mean something?” Her voice was timid and I cuddled her closer.

Fox curled his lip, bringing his hands back to him, glaring hatefully at them. “Invisible, impenetrable, invincible.”

The hair on the nape of my neck sprang up as he added in a low timbre voice, “Nevidimyy, nepronitsayemyy, nepobedimyy.”

He looked up, eyes glinting with remembered hatred. “The three things a Ghost must be. I’ve scrubbed my hands with abrasives; spent hours scouring them with sand to remove their trace, to forget, but they never leave, just like the conditioning will never leave.”

His voice turned inward, full of memories, echoing with agony. “That’s all we were. Ghosts to do their bidding and obey their every request. We were told to kill and we did. We were told every murder would slowly turn us immortal like gods. And just like gods, we had power. We were the law and nothing could touch us.”

He shook his head violently. “But that was all a lie. We were just humans, tortured within an inch of our psyche to become what they wanted us to be. A mindless machine for hire. Mercenaries of the highest order who anyone could buy to complete a task.”

His body shuddered, bowing his head. His hands clenched and every turmoil he felt lashed at me, bleeding me dry. He battled so deep, suffered so much, sucked backward where nightmares still ruled.

Minutes passed while Fox stood motionless, only his lips moving soundlessly. I’d seen a few people have flashbacks, their present overcome by an overpowering memory. Clara squirmed on my lap, her little body tensing with every minute.

As sudden as the flashback took him it was over. He looked up, blinking once. He rolled his shoulders. “Sorry.”

Clara shifted. “What were you thinking about?” Her warm, comforting weight helped keep my panic at bay, retaining my utter horror for the pain Fox had lived through.

“I was thinking about a little boy. You remind me of him so much, Clara. He was bright, funny, brave. His name was Vasily—it means kingly, of royal descent. He was nine when he died.”

Clara sighed. “I’m sorry. I like his name. What does yours mean?”

Fox smiled. “It means redhead, even though my hair turned darker as I grew older. A false name really.”

“I like it better than Ghost or Fox. I don’t believe in ghosts and you’re not see-through and can’t fly, so that’s just stupid. Those bad men who made you do bad things know nothing.”

I smothered a chuckle under my breath. I didn’t mean to laugh—the tension in the room had no space for humour—but Fox cracked a smile, too. Some of the overwound tension left his body. “You’re right. I’m not a Ghost. Not anymore. I’m just a man searching for a way to be human again.”

My heart squeezed to death.

Clara leaned back into me, her dark eyes riveted on the licking flames dancing over Fox’s face. “You may have killed, but you aren’t a bad man.”

Fox froze, drowning in her gaze. “What makes you say that?”

She broke eye contact, kicking her feet, looking anywhere but at him. “Because only bad men are lonely because no one can love them.” Her little lungs strained, sucking in courage. She burst out, “And I love you, so you can’t be a bad man otherwise how could I love you? I would know. I would be able to tell you were naughty, and I wouldn’t want to love someone like that.”

Fox went from standing straight and tall to looking ancient and frail. He sucked in a heavy breath, and for the briefest of moments, moisture filled his eyes. But then it was gone, and the fragility was replaced with power once again.

His throat worked hard. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll start the story now.” Gripping the hem of his black t-shirt, he tore it over his head.

What in the living daylights is he doing?

I squeezed Clara so hard she squeaked. For weeks I’d wanted to see Fox naked. I’d wanted to understand what he kept hidden. But now he stood before me and I wanted to shut my eyes.

He didn’t need to verbalize his story. It lived in his skin, engraved into muscles, and imprinted into flesh.

Balling the t-shirt, he threw it away.

My eyes were transfixed by his ripped muscles. They were too defined, too angry, too lacking nutrients and a healthy layer of fat. Every sinew, every vein, every thread and bunch of muscle seethed beneath the thin membrane of skin.

My fingers ached to touch him, to run along the long swooping scar on his rib cage and whisper over the small uniformed marks just below his collarbone. There were circular scars and oblong scars, square scars and scars that looked as if they still retained gravel and dirt from however they hurt him.

His stomach was so toned every ridge looked too harsh, too unforgiving to cuddle or sleep against. He didn’t look man. He looked like stone. Forged from granite and marble, carved from obsidian and slate.

“Fox…I—” My voice deserted me. A flare of connection and lust sprang to a fever pitch between us. Fox tensed, highlighting yet more scars in the light of the fire.

“Now you know why I don’t like for people to see.”

Clara stayed mute on my lap, either unimpressed by the show of male brokenness, or overwhelmed by the violence living on his skin. I shouldn’t allow this. I should take her far away, so she didn’t have to live with such atrocities in her young mind.

But she knew things she shouldn’t know. She knew her time was limited. She acted far beyond her age, yet she dealt with everything with such fine edged decorum and sensibility.

Tears tracked silently down my cheeks for both Fox and Clara. Two people who connected and were drawn to each other; two people who would destroy each other.

“I don’t want people to know. I don’t want people to guess my story, or display my crimes. Every day I try to forget, but every day I remember thanks to a body that will never erase or heal. But if you want to know, I will tell you the story behind every mark and cut. I’ve never forgotten—the memories are vivid and never ending in my head.” His voice dabbled with self-hatred and pleading.

I shook my head. I never wanted to know. I thought I did. I thought I wanted to uncover his secrets, but I couldn’t make him live through his past—not while it lived so deeply on his skin in the present.

Clara had no such scruples.

Her little hand darted up, pointing to a scar above his protruding hip bone. “That looks like a ce—cee—caesarean scar. Mummy has one, and she said she loves it because it reminds her of me.” She swirled in my arms to plant a gentle kiss on my cheek. “I didn’t mean to scar you, you know.”

I gathered her close, squeezing hard. “I love that scar. I’m thankful for it every day as it brought you into my life.” She sighed and squirmed closer while looking up at Fox.

Dropping his eyes, he traced the scar with a finger. “This is from a knife similar to the one you picked up. It was a test—weeding out the recruits who would operate in intense pain compared to those who couldn’t.”

My hands wanted to slam over Clara’s ears. I shot Fox a warning look. “Perhaps we’ve had enough story-time for one day.” I shot another message with my eyes. Stop it. You’ll scare her. She doesn’t need to know details.

Fox nodded. “We’ll avoid the scars for now. I’ll tell you the story of this.” Sucking in a breath, he turned away from us.

My mouth fell open, jaw slack in shock. If I thought his chest was impressive with its relic of memories, his back was a piece of parchment with history inked into every crevice.