Parasight

by E. S. Carter

  I giggle girlishly, my head turning from hers to stare at the fluffy white clouds that float aimlessly through the bluest of skies.

  “He’s… beautiful,” I admit without shame.

  She laughs and squeezes my hand to continue.

  “He’s tall and strong, and when his arms wrap around me I feel small, precious, warm and safe, but I feel powerful too. He gives me that power.”

  “And his lips?” she asks in the way only a teenage girl can. “What do his lips taste like, feel like?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit, sadness washing over me.

  “You will,” she giggles once more. “I have to go. He’s coming.”

  And then she’s gone. I reach out my hand to the long grass, but she’s not there. I want to scream for her, to beg her to take me with her, but even in my dream, I’m aware this cannot happen. So, I close my eyes to sleep.

  Strong arms wrap around me, and I snuggle into the warmth of a broad chest. Softness pillows my body, cocooning me in heat and comfort. I burrow deeper, and something warm is gently placed over me, followed by a hand running over my cheek, up into my hair. Strong fingers comb lightly through the strands. Then tenderly, oh so tenderly, I feel the whisper of lips on mine.

  I awake the next morning tucked up in a big, warm bed, the blankets folded tightly around my body. I stretch quietly and send my senses out into the empty bedroom, then further into the small cottage. Nobody is here except me. I’m alone.

  I fell asleep next to the door on the cold floor, and I wake up tucked in bed. I haven’t slept as well as this ever. Even since living at Hunter Lodge, I rarely sleep for more than an hour or two at a time, my body conditioned to be on alert, but last night I slept, and I slept hard.

  I panic briefly at the realisation and push both my hands under the covers to run my palms from breasts to thighs. A sigh escapes me when I find I’m still wearing the tight dress from last night. Whoever put me to bed didn’t undress me.

  My mind clings to memories from my sleep, and absentmindedly my fingertips reach up to touch my lips. They still tingle with the recollection of my dream, and I briefly wish it hadn’t been all make-believe.

  Only the urge to pee drags me from under the covers, and as I approach the bedroom door my feet encounter the small bag I packed with Faye before we left.

  Someone took measures to ensure that when I awoke this morning, I’d be comfortable. I can’t see that being Luke or the man who brought me here last night. Only one person would think of my comfort at a time like this.

  I know Grim has been in this room and not only because his scent lingers in the air and permeates the bed covers. I know it was him because it was his lips I felt on mine.

  Grim

  “Get those fucking eyes off my table,” Luke barks out, his stare boring into mine, his lips pressed into a thin line at the sight of my grin.

  “What? Don’t you like Frenchy’s peepers? I thought you’d appreciate the evidence of my productivity and self-control. I didn’t kill anyone,” I state proudly before scooping up both hazel eyes in one hand, liking the feel of them rolling around in my palm. Their texture is like little balls of hardened meat now that their juices have dried, and I place them back in the inside pocket of my suit. Then I shrug the jacket off my shoulders and drape it over the back of the chair before taking a seat.

  “We need to discuss James Renshaw,” I state, straight and to the point now that I’ve had my fun.

  Luke’s lips briefly twitch, the fucker suppressing a smile before he says, “I’ve recently got off the phone with Mr Cooper.” His eyes narrow at me then he continues, “Unlike you, who was too busy cuddling the night away with a broken trophy, I’ve not only had a long chat with your newly reacquainted brother, but I’ve also had Cole corroborate everything that he shared with me.”

  He stares at me a long moment before continuing, “He checks out, Grim. Everything Cole found out about him and everything he’s already shared with us only confirms this. The man may be on the inside of The Kingdom, but he’s been slowly making his move over the last few years and knows all their weaknesses.”

  “I don’t give a fuck. He’s a Renshaw. He dies.”

  Luke doesn’t flinch when I bang my fist down on the table in frustration, my legs itching with the need to get up and run all the fucking way back to the centre of Paris and hunt this motherfucker down.

  When he’s satisfied that he has my attention, he looks directly into my eyes and says, “So, brother, are you.”

  I bolt upright, the table catching on my thighs and tilting before slamming back down on four legs.

  “I’ve never been a Renshaw,” I snarl through clenched teeth, motioning to my face as if he can’t see for himself my disfigurements. “I have the scars to prove it. What does this fucker have? Oh, yes, money, power and a seat at the top table.”

  “And a dead wife and son,” he tags onto the end of my tirade.

  My fists remain clenched at my sides, my body jerky, fighting the need to cut, to harm, to kill.

  “You know that for a fact?”

  “We do. James kept them secret from your parents, your mother found out and through her connections she paid The Kingdom a mighty sum to punish him for it. Only his daughter got spared, a consolation prize so to speak, or more like a bargaining chip to make him toe the line.”

  “So how’d he end up a King? Do you understand how fucking ridiculous this all sounds?” I ignore the sharp pain in my chest, a phantom ache for what a dishonest man claims to have lost.

  “Simple. He made your parents more money than they’d ever earned before, and you know that’s quite a feat seeing as they were filthy fucking rich. He allied their farm with The Kingdom, bred them property, sent them hundreds upon hundreds of men, women and children until he’d bought their trust and moved quickly through their ranks.”

  “I knew he was too good to be true. And you fucking trust him? A man who admits to supplying The Kingdom with slaves.”

  Luke shrugs one shoulder, picking up a pen from the table before him and flicking it through his fingers.

  “The way I see it, whether they stayed at the farm or sold to The Kingdom, they were all as good as dead anyway.”

  “You cold-hearted bastard, you’re nothing like Cole, in fact, I sometimes wonder why you ever bothered helping him take down Alec Craven,” I spit the words out like bullets, aiming each one for his vital organs, hoping for a direct hit.

  He stands and leans towards me, his movements an open threat.

  “I helped him take down Craven for vengeance, pure and simple. But it seems your blood brother has a bleeding heart much like yours. You see, he may have sold hundreds to The Kingdom, but he bought back double that amount right under their noses and they never once knew.”

  I blink, his words not registering.

  “Yes, that’s right, Grim. James Renshaw has saved more people than you, Cole and I twice over. That’s how I know he can be trusted.”

  It can’t be true. How would he manage to do that? We are three men with a wealth of resources at our disposal, yet him, one man, has pissed all over our attempts at justice and made us look pathetic in comparison.

  “You have proof or is this all talk?”

  Luke glares at me like I’ve just called him stupid, which I guess I did, before he opens the files I’d previously displayed Frenchy’s eyes on and pulls out a stack of documents and photographs.

  “This is his vineyard in northern Italy.” He begins to toss image after image down on the table top showing scenes of small wooden homes, men and women working among the vines, children going to a small on-site school, and the smiling faces of people as they press grapes with their bare feet. It’s idyllic and so unbelievable to me that it must be a façade for something sinister.

  “It’s real, Grim. It has all checked out. The wine they produce there is award winning, and those who want to leave to build lives elsewhere are free to go. The vineyard even has an on-site plastic
surgeon that lasers off their brands and corrects any scarring. Not to mention therapists, teachers, psychologists, you name it, he’s got it. This operation makes what we do at Hunter Lodge look insignificant.”

  I stare at the photographs, trying to find evidence of fakery or wrongdoing, and I see nothing but hope. It’s plastered on the faces of every man, woman and child that stares up at me from the glossy papers.

  “Those two young girls from last night are already on their way there. He told me all about the incident. He knew you would intervene so he stepped in to save your skin. He’s known who you are for some time, Grim. When you showed up last night, he knew it was time to combine forces and end this once and for all.”

  I’m trying and failing to absorb all this when there’s a knock on the door and one of Luke’s men steps into the room.

  “The woman is outside the cottage. She said she’s going for a walk. Do you want me to stop her?”

  “She’s not a prisoner, she’s free to wander,” Luke answers with a smile in his voice. “Although, I wouldn’t want her to wander off too far and get lost. Maybe I’ll go and assist the lovely lady and…”

  “Do not finish that fucking sentence. Nobody helps Cal except me.”

  I spin, knocking my chair to the floor and storming from the room, shoulder checking the man on the way out, whatever-the-fuck his name is, Killer One, Two or Three, they all look the same.

  “Give Calliah my best wishes and thank her for keeping you on a tight leash last night, won’t you?” Luke calls out to my back. Before I turn left, and down the hallway, I flip him the bird without looking back. Fucker is lucky I didn’t cut out his tongue.

  Outside, the sun breaks through the clouds, casting a bright glow on the dewy grass. This shitty old farmhouse and adjacent cottage look almost pretty in the cleansing sunshine. You can almost overlook the rotting woodwork and crater filled dirt driveway. Almost.

  I scan the front of the grounds and spot Cal slowly walking away from the cottage and approaching the paddock on my left. She looks different today with her hair tied back, clad in a simple lemon t-shirt and jeans. I’ve never seen her in anything but white, except for last night and the black piece of shit they made her wear that, I’m ashamed to admit, made my cock twitch. Today she looks like a regular girl taking a walk in the countryside, although an ethereal air still follows her, her footsteps as economic and graceful as always.

  That is until her right leg sinks into an open hole where a fence post once stood, and her body tilts to the ground suddenly, her leg buckling underneath her weight.

  I break into a run, clearing the space between us in a matter of seconds and vaulting over the rotting wooden fence.

  “Cal, are you hurt?” I rush out, unable to keep the panic from my voice. I reach her in a few strides and bend at the knees to bring myself down to her side.

  “Only my pride,” she answers back quietly. The hole she fell into is half full with muddy water, and her jeans and one side of her body are covered in muck, her hands black and slippery as she pushes herself up and then winces.

  “You are hurt, let me help you.”

  I reach out to pick her up, and she bats my hands away.

  “No, I’ve got myself into worse situations. I can get myself out. I’m not hurt.”

  The hole is bigger up close than it initially appeared and I can’t help but ask, “How the fuck did you miss that anyway?” Yeah, because I’m a dumb prick who isn’t used to filtering my words for anyone.

  She averts her face, her eyes dropping to the grass as she pushes herself up and misjudges the edge of the hole, her hands sliding off slick grass and landing in the muddy water.

  Her movements are clumsy and unlike her in every way. Her hands are struggling to find purchase but likely because she isn’t looking where to place them, she’s attempting to feel where to put them, her movements frantic and uncoordinated.

  I’m not always the sharpest knife in the butcher’s block, but things hit me all at once. Her regular stumbles, her lack of direct eye contact, the fact she doesn’t flinch at my scars, how unintimidated by me she is when most people run a mile when they see me, and her eyes, their colour unlike any I’ve ever seen.

  “Let me help you, Cal,” I offer softly, not waiting for her agreement. I hook both hands underneath her and scoop her up to my chest, liking the feel of her against me, even more than I did last night in the dark when I put her to bed. Then I let her down slowly until both her feet hit solid ground.

  Her gaze is still averted from mine as she takes a small step back and rubs her dirty palms over her denim clad thighs.

  “Cal, look at me.” My voice is firm but barely a whisper. I know she hears me because she stills and I can tell she’s weighing up her options.

  “Cal,” her name on my lips a plea.

  Slowly she lifts her head and locks her eyes on my face. To anyone else it would seem she’s looking straight at me, but as I study her face I can see her eyes are aimed just above the bridge of my nose.

  “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “What a pointless question,” she retorts quickly, her voice soft, her tone the opposite.

  “Humour me,” I press. “How many?”

  She hesitates before moving her gaze to where she thinks I’ve moved my hand, her eyes settling on fresh air.

  “None,” she eventually answers, and for a second I’m caught unawares because she’s answered correctly, but I haven’t even moved my hand from my side.

  I haven’t moved.

  My silence causes her to smile slightly. She thinks she’s won.

  “I’m going to ask you something, and I’ll know if you’re lying Cal, so give me the truth.”

  She remains still, and I study every tiny movement of her face, watching as the wheels in her brain spin wildly in preparation.

  “Have you always been blind?”

  Calliah

  “Have you always been blind?”

  Even though I’d braced myself for his discovery, it still crippled me.

  I bite the inside of my cheek refusing to answer, my chin lifted, my shoulders back ready for the confrontation but secretly breaking inside.

  Nobody except Damaris knew.

  Then Faye somehow figured it out but swore to keep my secret. To be called out like this, by him of all people, is more painful than I ever anticipated.

  I’m useless to him now.

  I feel him take a step towards me, yet we are still an arm’s length away.

  “How do you do it, I’ve never seen anyone as graceful as you or as aware of their body and surroundings. You move as if you walk on air, especially when nobody is watching. You found your way to my river, and never once stumbled.”

  Awe infuses his every word, but all I feel is shame and embarrassment.

  We are both silent for what seems like minutes and if I’d had time to assess the area around me before I fell into that hole, I’d be able to turn and run. Chances are if I did that now, with my emotions in turmoil and my senses scrambled, I’d do more than end up knee deep in a muddy hole. So, I decide to do what I’ve always done. Fake it.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about and I passed your test, I told you that you didn’t have any fingers held up.”

  “Yes, you passed. You passed because you didn’t hear me move, not because you saw my fingers. What colour eyes do I have?”

  My spine straightens, and I want to run.

  “I’ve not been close enough to tell.” Another lie.

  He takes one more step towards me, the tips of his shoes touching mine. It’s identical to how he moved on me when he found me at the stream. Only, this time, there isn’t any anger flowing from his body to mine. He’s not trying to intimidate me.

  “Now you are, what colour are they?” he pushes me to answer once more and this close, practically chest to chest, feeling the heat of his body against mine I’m out of options.

  No more lies.

  I te
ntatively lift my trembling hand and hesitate, my arm shaking on the way to its destination. The air between us seems to vibrate with my nervous energy, and my apprehension is clearly visible to him. Then, I feel him breathe deeply and slowly, seeing my intention and anticipating it and suddenly I’m not nervous anymore. He knows I’m about to touch him and he wants that to happen. He wants my hands on his face.

  Silence falls around us when my fingertips reach his chin. That first, feather light touch more intimate than anything I’ve ever experience in my life.

  Rough stubble rasps against the pads of my fingers, the texture soft yet prickly and I open my palm to feel more of it. He sighs so softly it’s almost inaudible out here in the open, but I feel the warm puff of air against the sensitive inside of my wrist, and I shiver.

  “You have a small dimple in your chin,” I mumble more to myself than him. Needing more of his features I move my fingers along his strong jaw, feeling his stubble thicken in some areas more than others. It’s not obviously uneven, but my all-seeing fingers can sense the subtle changes. Further up they move until the stubble makes way to smooth skin against sharp cheekbones, and then I feel it, and he freezes. A ridge of thick, puckered skin, jagged in shape but smooth to the touch. It’s an old scar, and as my fingers trace its path, I can tell it’s a long scar. I tenderly follow it from just above his cheekbone, down a long curve, where it stops at the deep arch of his cupids bow. Back my fingertips go, following the varying thickness of scar tissue upwards until it ends at the corner of his left eye. My fingers stop at the edge, his eyelids blinking, long lashes tickling over my skin.

  “Who did this to you?”

  He inhales long and loud. “I’ll tell you, if you can tell me what colour my eyes are.”

  “Green,” I answer immediately. “Not like the colour of summer grass, but of the moss that blankets the forest floor.”

  His breath holds for a beat, then two, before he lets it out slowly. I’m still learning his face with my fingers, so I immediately feel the furrow of his brow and the deep wrinkles on his forehead. He’s wondering how I know, while also trying to find a way out of telling me about his scar.