House of Clowns (HUNT Trilogy #1)

9. NINE

NINE

JOKER

E very step forward was a betrayal. With every breath, I cursed myself for walking away from that house, from her, but what was I supposed to do? I was just a stranger, just some guy cloaked behind a painted mask. She probably thought I was a freak—a twisted, painted-up clown messing with her family.

She was right. What was I to her?

I kicked a loose stone in the road, feeling the sharp jab of its impact against my shoe, but kept on, each step heavier than the last. Reaching the end of the road, I paused, straddling the fence, and looked back. Her house was quiet, shadowed in the faded light. Was I ever to see her again? Would she even remember me?

But then I saw it—the flicker in her window. Lights, flashing on and off. My heart seized. My fingers dug into the wood of the fence, splinters stabbing under my nails as I jumped back down and broke into a run, cutting through the darkness back to her house.

The night seemed to stretch on, the distance between every step elongating into eternity. My breathing became wild with my heartbeat, a raw urgency tearing through me. Her face filled my mind: the bruise on her cheek, the way her eyes held onto that last spark despite everything being torn from under her.

When I came closer to the house, my muscles were screaming, but all the same, I didn't halt. I heard a crash inside, the unmistakable sound of a struggle, and saw her father, his drunken shadow flailing through the window. I moved to the side, peering through another window, and there she was—collapsed on the floor, blood pooling around her. My mind went blank.

I lunged for the wooden frame of the window, hoisting myself up and ignoring the sting as shards of glass sliced into my fists. I pounded at it until the glass shattered, sending pieces flying across the room.

Carlo turned to me, "Rio, you have to take her. Get her out of here."

"You're both coming with me," I said, swinging myself through the window, ignoring the blood now trickling from my hands. The pain didn't register. It simply didn't compare to seeing her like this.

"No," he whispered, turning a fearful glance over his shoulder. "He won't hurt me. I'll call my brother, Christian, to come for me. Just… get her out of here. Please."

Nodding, my jaw was set. There was no time for arguments. I knelt beside her sliding my arms under her fragile bruised body. She felt so small, so weightless, but I held her tight being as careful as I could lifting her. Carlo reached into his jacket pulling out a notebook. He pressed it into my hand. "Tell her I'll be okay. Tell her not to worry."

With a final nod, I moved to the window, lifting her in my arms. As I climbed through with her clutched in my arms, Carlo gave me one last look, gesturing for me to go. There he was, all alone, trying to be brave. I ran the cold air nipping at my skin, without looking back. Barely stirring, shallow breaths against my chest, yet I pushed on. Her blood stained my shirt and my hands were growing numb—each step driving shards of glass deeper into my palms. But nothing mattered except getting her away from that place.

By the time we reached the tree's edge, my arms ached and my legs were burning. We went that far at least when, hidden from the road, I finally reached the old fence. Laying her down on the cool grass, I knelt and brushed a stray strand of hair from her face.

"Hey," I whispered, my fingers brushing gently against her cheek, the minor friction prodding to stir her. "Come on, stay with me."

Her eyelids fluttered, and her face contorted in a grimace as she slowly opened her eyes. I didn't know what she'd gone through, but I could see the hurt, the fear, and somewhere, the strength.

"You're safe now," I murmured. "I've got you. Just breathe."

She parted her lips, her voice was barely more than a whisper. "My brother... take me back." Her body tensed, trying to sit up, but I pressed my hand firmly against her chest, holding her down.

"No." I met her stare, my brows knit tightly. "He stayed to protect you."

Her face crumpled, and tears slid down her bruised cheeks. "He can't protect himself," she choked, the words cracking. "If anything happens to him, I'll never forgive myself."

I leaned in close, steadying her with my stare. "If you're going to blame someone, blame me," I said low. Her gaze flickered, studying my face, swollen eyelids heavy with bruises her father had left in his wake. She turned her head to the side, retreating from the intensity of my words.

"I can take it," I murmured, soft but resolute.

She was so fragile, so ravaged by the life she'd lived, that the most warped part of me felt… possessive, maybe protective. She was like a broken doll left in the dirt, and I was that man who'd found her, ready to piece her back together—broken edges to match my own. I hated that I enjoyed it; it was there nonetheless, gnawing at me with every passing moment.

"Can you walk?" I asked, slipping an arm around her shoulders and gently lifting her. She planted her feet on the ground and stumbled, her balance going as she leaned into me, her weight pressing into my chest.

Her eyes, vulnerable, searched and found mine, and I exhaled sharply, grumbling under my breath as I shifted in place. Before she could protest, I slid one arm under her legs, the other supporting her back, lifting her easily.

"I know a place no one will find you," I said low, sure of tone, carrying her toward the woods as the trees closed in around us.

House of Clowns.