Pepper Winters - Destroyed

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.

Clara bounced off my lap, tearing my arms off her. “Wow.” She moved forward, transfixed on his tattooed back. The golden hue of licking flames highlighted the ridges of his muscles and flickered over the silver of his scars like some expensive imbedded jewellery. “What happened to you?” Clara leaned forward, childlike wonder shining bright in her eyes.

“Life happened to me, little one.”

I didn’t know if I wanted to laugh or cry. In one move, Fox gave everything that he was. He bared his soul; he dropped every barrier, so we could understand him better.

I hated myself in that moment for keeping so much from him. For judging him. For not understanding or granting more compassion.

His tattoo wasn’t something he wore with pride. It wasn’t an achievement or earned. It was a plain message of ownership. Every design spoke of proprietorship and control.

My heart swelled for this broken warrior. My eyes burned with tears.

Looking over his shoulder, he murmured, “Ready for your story now?”

Clara nodded, dumfounded, eyes flittering all over his inked back. Fox bent his knees and crashed to the floor, presenting himself at my feet. Clara moved closer, breathing hard. “Can I—I want to—”

Fox clenched his fists, digging them into his thighs. “You can. I’ll tell you which to touch, and I’ll tell you the story.”

A large smile broke her face, then she frowned. “Is it all sad? I don’t know if I want to listen to something all sad.”

Fox laughed softly. “Life is sad, little one. It’s full of heartache and bittersweet hope, but you are my happy ending. You are my happiness, so remember that when I tell you.”

Clara reached out to touch.

My throat dried to a husk as Fox muttered, “Go slowly. Start at the top.”

My muscles were ready to spurn forth and snatch my daughter away. This was the worst possible place for her to touch him. Weapons lurked in every corner, a fire billowed beside them. He could bludgeon her and burn all evidence in a matter of moments.

Clara nodded, her fingers trembled as she gently laid a hand on the base of his neck where a Celtic-like knot had been drawn.

Fox said, “That one—that’s the symbol of never-ending battle.” He stopped, clearing his throat. “Once upon a time, a boy who was born to royal blood strayed too far from home. He didn’t listen to his mother’s warnings and thought he knew best. Their castle rested on the edge of a mystical forest where bears and wolves played in the snow. The little boy explored for hours, searching for them, but he didn’t find any bears or wolves. But he did find something else.”

Clara dropped her hand to the next tattoo, willing Roan to continue.

Roan.

I’d slipped and thought of him by his first name.

He flinched as her finger circled an angel bowing over a sword across her legs with three words in a circle. “That’s the mark of a Ghost. The angel of death and our three promises: Invincible, impenetrable, invisible. It was a pledge, a curse, our destiny.”

Fox sucked in a breath and continued with his story. “The little boy found two men and thought they were there to guide him back home. So he went willingly and didn’t struggle when they shoved him into a van and drove for miles into the wilderness. They told the boy his old life was over and to survive he must follow every rule without question.”

The atmosphere in the room thickened with anticipation. I sat forward on the chair, inching closer, my skin tingling.

Clara stuck her tongue out in concentration, dropping her hand to the next symbol. It depicted a swarm of angry swirls, never ending.

“That one represents evil. We were the weapons of righteousness. Our only purpose was to obey our master—if we did as we were ordered, we would be safe from evil.” His back tensed as he continued, “Years passed for the boy as he grew from child to teen to adult. As he completed stages of training, exams were given and to pass he had to hurt his beautiful mother, courageous father, and talented little brother. The boy was brainwashed every day. He was told he was no longer human, but a Ghost whose job was to exterminate vermin. Out of fifty other boys and girls who lived with him in this new castle, only thirteen graduated. The rest disappeared, stolen by the snow to never be seen again.”

I winced as my nails dug hard into my palms, drawing blood. My heart thumped in heavy pain for all the children who’d been forced to kill. All the children who’d been murdered by the sick, twisted men who kidnapped and tortured young innocence.

Clara shook her head in sadness. My heart seized at the thought of her wrapping her arms around him and hugging. The longer Fox told his story, the further his voice sounded—swallowed up by the past. It lost its intensity, drifting off into a soft, hypnotic tone.

Clara dropped her fingers, tracing a pretty snowflake on Fox’s spine.

He growled, hands clenching. Clara lost her balance a little before steadying herself.

“That’s the tattoo I hate the most. It was punishment. If we failed to do exactly what they wanted, they’d make us spend nights alone in the forest. The once mystical bears and wolves I wanted to find were now my enemies in the dark. Hungry and looking for a tasty snack—” He cut himself off before continuing, “The little boy spent his eighth birthday in the pit. The worst place to go if you disappointed your handlers. Day and night with no shelter. No warmth from dusting snow, or blankets to stop frostbite from turning your limbs into ice. The little boy hated the pit, and his deep-seated fear of the dark stemmed from those nights. Endless blackness only punctured by a weak moon and the glowing yellow eyes of wolves.”

Clara skirted over the Roman numeral III and went straight to a flame with an anvil.

Fox sighed, releasing some of his recalled fear. “When the little boy obeyed orders, he was allowed to work in the smithy. He loved the heat and brightness of fire and his skills grew. He threw himself into turning hunks of metal into weapons of destruction—it was his happy place. Despite the daily toils and gruesome tasks he was given, the boy never forgot who he truly was and always remembered the truth. They broke him again and again, but he knew in his heart he wasn’t what they said he was. It wasn’t until a fairy godmother granted him the loss of sight that he was able to find freedom.”