His jaw clenches. “Yeah, you do. I agree. Just know this: I’ve never wanted to be with anyone as much as I want to be with you, as much as I want to try with you.”
“You barely know me.”
“You don’t need long to recognize a soul that fits perfectly against yours.”
His words sink into me slowly, sink deeper and deeper, shimmering.
“So what’s your origin story, then?” I ask to distract myself from that faint but brightening light before it blinds me. “Your lover left you and you decided to take revenge on the world? Or something darker, like your mom abandoning you as a child?” When he stares at me, I shrug. “What? Sawyer got me into reading a lot of fantasy novels. Lots of tragic backstories.”
His mouth twitches. “For real?”
“Yeah. So you can’t shock me.”
“No,” he says, “I can see that now.”
“You can tell me anyway.”
“Can I? All right.” His hands drop between his knees again. “I might as well, since we’re here.”
“Should I get some popcorn?”
This time, a muscle leaps in his jaw. “I’d rather tell my story quickly, like pulling off a Band-Aid, if you don’t mind.”
“Go ahead.”
“Thanks. I… Damn, talking about it is more difficult than I thought. It’s the first time I’ve told the story since… since it happened, I guess. Fuck.” He draws the silver lip hoop between his teeth. “It’s an old story by now. It shouldn’t affect me. Shouldn’t dictate my decisions.”
“A true origin story,” I mutter.
His hands are back up, rubbing over his face. Then they move to rake through his short hair. “Yeah. I was a teenager. Fourteen years of glorious badassery. Playing pranks. Smoking behind the house. Hanging out with other punks. Lazy as fuck. Chasing girls and boys. Shooting the shit.”
“You were always a menace, weren’t you?” I wince when I hear the fondness in my voice.
“You wouldn’t have liked me. Fuck knows you don’t like me now and I’ve cleaned up my act by a lot.”
“I didn’t say I…” I don’t like you. I shake my head. Is this a trap? A honey trap decorated with inked mermaids and piercings?
“Anyway, to cut a long story short… I was irresponsible, selfish, careless, and immature,” he says softly. “Things I’ve been working on ever since. My family was fed up with me. My older brothers permanently annoyed. I thought it was both hilarious and aggravating, the way they always snapped at me. So one day, I played a terrible prank. We were going for a drive out of town, but I stayed back with my aunt. Can’t recall what my excuse was. I called my mom after they had left and put up a whole theater act like I was being kidnapped.”
“You didn’t,” I whisper, horrified at the coincidence and cruelty of the prank.
“I was a fucking asshole,” he agrees. “But that wasn’t the end of it. I wish it were. You see, Mom screamed when she heard that. And Dad freaked out and swerved. The car plunged into a lake.”
“Oh, Ryder…”
“My parents died almost instantly. My two brothers survived, though they moved across the country and never spoke to me again. Which is understandable. I’m a murderer.”
“The names inked on your chest… I’m so sorry. You didn’t mean to hurt them.”
“What matters is the end result.” He’s quiet for long moments, worrying the ring in his lip. Then he says, “I decided then that I wasn’t fit for human company. Much less for a marriage or pack. So there you have it. The origin. The cradle of the monster.”
The names, but also the symbolism of the water, expressed as all those sea creatures and elements tattooed all over his chest and arms, make sense now.
He looks at himself in the mirror every day and remembers, punishing himself.
Oh God. This isn’t fair. I said I wouldn’t fall into a trap, but this is an abyss with Ryder’s face.
“You were just a kid,” I whisper.
