Slate’s legs spring up. He hooks his calves around the Hulk’s neck. His back bends, chest lunges, and finally, Slate breaks free. As his body rises from the ground, back into a standing position directly in front of me, the first thing I notice is the ink on his chest and arms. Then, my heart stops. It shuts right down. I can’t breathe when I see the angry red scars trailing down the left side of his body—down his chin, his neck, arm, side, and leg. Hand still over my open mouth, my other hand clutches my chest. I can’t move. Oh. My. God! What happened to my beautiful Slate?
He glares down at the guy on the floor. Gloves fisted, chest rising and falling, he waits for his opponent to stand. From the corner of my eye, I faintly see the Hulk grabbing for the cage to get up, but I can’t turn away from Slate. I can’t understand what I’m seeing. All those scars look painful. Slate’s eyes flash from the man and connect right with mine. He sees me, but he doesn’t react or look away.
As if time slowly stops, we stare at each other. His eyes—they’re not the same. The bright specks of blue, green, and gray no longer glint. They’re dull, as though the life’s been sucked out of them and all that’s left is the darkest color. My chest tightens. What happened? What took the beautiful light from him—the innocence and kindness that used to glisten in those eyes? What caused that damage to his body? There’s always been a strong connection between us, and I feel his suffering deep in my heart. I also sense that the Slate I knew doesn’t live in that malformed body anymore.
My eyes start to burn, but I can’t turn away, and neither does he. It costs him a quick jab to the face. His head jolts to the side, the hit breaking our connection. I step forward, pushing myself through the crowd, trying to get closer. Slate stumbles back, shaking it off. He lunges forward, gets the guy in a bear hug, and they twirl around in the ring until Slate’s crushed up against the cage, again facing me. The man has him in a chokehold.
Slate’s cold, dead eyes pierce into me, through me. I feel the very pain that scars his muscular flesh. I feel it in every cell of my being. It consumes me, and there’s no stopping the single hot tear as it drops from the corner of my eye. The second it lands on my cheek, Slate’s eyes turn black. His face crumples with an unrecognizable rage, both arms lift, and his gloved fingers clutch the Hulk’s arm. Ruthlessly, he rips the Hulk’s arm from his throat.
Just then, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I spin around. My body is shaking. “Emmie,” I gasp for the first time since seeing Slate and reality hits me hard. I suck in some air. “Oh, my God!” I lift a trembling hand to my mouth, and her eyes soften with understanding. She knows! Why didn’t she tell me? Was she trying to protect me? I don’t need protection. “No,” I barely say in a harsh whisper. “No!” Emmie tries to comfort me, but I push her away. “No!” I shake my hands, this isn’t happening. That ruthless man, permanently scarred from God knows what; that’s not my Slate. “No! No! No!”
“Rayna-” Emmie reaches out for me again.
“No!” I clench her shirt with white-knuckled fingers and pull her to me, desperately searching for an answer. “Tell me, Emmie. You tell me right now. What happened to my Slate!”
“The fire,” she says, looking me right in the eyes. “The fire in Grams’ store, Slate was there, inside, when it happened.”
“No.” I swallow back my tears, imagining him caught in the store, imagining him alone and afraid. Oh God, my stomach flips. What he must have gone through to get all those scars. The thought of his skin burning weakens my knees, but I manage to keep myself upright.
“I’m sorry, Rayna. I swear, I didn’t know. Jax just told me,” Emmie says, as the crowd gets louder and louder.
I loosen the grip on Emmie’s shirt but don’t let go, fearful that I might tumble to the floor if I do. I turn around. Slate stands, face bruised and bloodied, while the Hulk lies unmoving on the mat. The ref is leaning over the Hulk. I’m not sure if he’s counting down from ten or talking to him. Then the ref stands up, walks over to Slate, and lifts his arm. The crowd howls for their winner. The winner, though, doesn’t appear affected by their devotion. He yanks his hand from the ref’s grip, grabs his hoodie from the corner of the ring, and pulls it over his head. He starts to leave the ring, glances over his shoulder, and from the corner of a dark eye, he finds me.
Still, as swiftly as he finds me, he’s just as quick to desert me. He turns away, leaving the way he came. He disappears through the door. And all I can think about are those dark, lifeless eyes.