He knew the second her expression went tight where she’d go—straight for the heart. “Your scars.”
Fuck. He took a step back, needing some distance between them and a strong fucking drink. “Drink?”
“Sure.” She sat on the couch and crossed her long legs, watching him. It struck him that she expected to get what she wanted. She knew damn well that he’d rather walk barefoot over burning coals than bring up these ugly memories, and she was betting on him letting her have her way tonight instead of getting into those memories. Well, tough shit.
If it were anyone else, they’d be right. But this wasn’t anyone else. This woman made him feel things he’d thought were long dead and gone, and he wasn’t going to shy away from an ugly experience if it meant he was hurdling over the last of her barriers. She trusted him. She’d come to him time and again when she was in trouble or upset. He’d told her about his mother—something he talked about even less than he talked about his scars. He could tell her this, too.
James found whiskey in the upper cabinet and poured himself a healthy dose in a cup. Then he grabbed the gin and vermouth from the lower cabinet and put together her martini. Once it was done, there was nothing left to stall with, but he felt as centered as he was going to be for this conversation. He set her drink on the coffee table and took the other side of the couch. “Fine, lovely. I’ll bare my soul for you—but these things go both ways.”
She tensed. “I don’t know.” He waited while she took a nervous sip of her drink, and waited some more while she looked everywhere but at him. Carrigan was a direct sort and, sure enough, it didn’t take her long to gather up her courage and meet his gaze. “You’re on.”
“Perfect.” He drained half his whiskey and set the glass down, doing his damnedest to ignore the shaking in his hands. “You know my father is a monster. All of Boston does. He’s got a reputation for being an artist when it comes to torture.”
“I’ve heard the rumors.” She nodded, a small line appearing between her brows. “And I looked into it more after what happened over the summer. People don’t like talking about it, but I still managed to learn more than I wanted to know.”
Of course she’d looked into it. It was completely natural for her to want to know what would have been in store for her if she and Callista hadn’t escaped that night. It made him sick to think about. He pushed to his feet, filled with too much agitation to just sit here and calmly talk about her being tortured and murdered. She might have made her peace with it. He hadn’t.
He stalked to the window and twitched back the curtain to stare into the night. “My old man wasn’t a good person when my mother was alive. He still did the same unforgivable shit that he’s been doing the last fifteen years. He was still at least half as crazy as he is now. But when she was alive, he never touched us. It was like this one last bastion of goodness that he had going for him. He might be a monster and a shitty father, but he wasn’t that much of a monster. I heard her say that one night while she was praying for his immortal soul.” He felt his lips quirk into a smile, but there was no joy behind it. “And then she died and everything changed.”
He paused, trying to get control of his breathing. If he dwelled on it too long, he could feel the whip against his back, the tip tearing through flesh. It had been a long time ago, but there weren’t enough years to completely banish the memories. His skin tightened, his whole body tense in fear of another blow. He’s gone. It’s not happening anymore. It won’t happen again. Cold comfort. “It was like the last glimmer of light in his soul died with her. He took it into his head that we’d been coddled and were pussies, and to my old man, there was only one way to fix it.”
She didn’t say anything, and he couldn’t bring himself to look at her and see pity on her face. He’d survived. He hadn’t been broken, not completely. James took a deep breath. “So one day he drags us down to the basement where he interrogates Halloran enemies, and he tells us…” He could still see the mad gleam in Victor’s eyes, hear the rasp of his voice. James’s skin broke out in goose bumps. “He tells us that any sons of his have to prove that they won’t break. And then he took us, one by one, and told us to pick—the whip or the canes. Brendan chose the canes, and he had to be carried out of the room afterward. So I chose the whip.”
Her soft gasp reached him, but he still didn’t turn around. “It wasn’t the last time it happened, but it was the worst. After that, we knew if we stepped out of line, that was the fate that waited for us.”