House of Clowns (HUNT Trilogy #1)

10. TEN

TEN

ACE

A strange pull tethered me between worlds, and with this the familiar struggle of drifting from a perfect dream into reality. I am everything in that world: unbound, in control, a master of my own fate—I'm limitless, unshadowed by doubt, alive with the kind of freedom that feels like an endless sky. But my eyes open, and I feel the thought slipping from my grasp, leaving me to face another day that tastes of survival. Every morning brings a sense of a lost battle, a new test.

You can do this, I tell myself, while in a whisper immediately after, What if I can't? Yet somehow, I always can. No matter how serrated yesterday was, every sunrise is a thin thread of hope, promising it cannot get worse than yesterday.

I am a survivor, not a victim.

I blink, taking in the soft light filtering through the room, the soft hum of silence all around me. His shirt clings loosely to my shoulders, its fabric carrying a faint scent of smoke—sharp, earthy tobacco wrapped in something richer, dark oudh and a crisp edge of bergamot. The odd mixture soothes me and grounds me here. I look around. The room is spare, a quiet peace: three beds lined against pale walls, though I am the only one here. The large window hauls in the early morning light, the soft glow skimming across a pair of closets and a mirror dominating the wall across from me.

It feels like a balm, a shelter for my weary body and soul, this bare simplicity. And for the first time in so long, I feel relief—a sense of being loosed from the pain and chaos, unchased.

My muscles feel weightless, each bruise and cut tended, each ache a distant reminder, yet somehow bearable. And though each wound sings a song of hurt, a strange peace fills me, coaxing a faint smile to my lips. For now, it isn't pain that owns me; I am free, suspended in a calm.

I shift a little, my eyes fixed upon the door as creaks in old wood whisper that footsteps near. My heart beats faster. I shut my eyes, but then comes the easing of that door and I blink them open, and he steps in. He's balancing a coffee cup in one hand, a hunk of bread clasped between his teeth. He kicks the door shut with his foot to nudge it closed, then turns to face me. He stops.

"Hi," he mutters, words muffled by the bread at his lips.

I let out a chuckle, hugging the blanket higher, very aware of the sudden heat rising to my cheeks.

"Hi."

He's no longer hidden behind a painted face. His skin, smooth and bare, catches the light; pale as winter frost, his hair is slicked back, though a few rebellious strands fall across his brow. The piercing intensity of his icy blue eyes seems to bore into my skin, but behind them, there's warmth—a tug that pulls at me, softening the edges. A serrated scar carves down from his forehead, and slashes through his right eyebrow, tracing a line down to the middle of his cheek. There's also a pair of scars framing his lips—curving outwards in the near-perpetual dark smile. I find myself wondering what stories lie behind them if they were self-inflicted or branded there by someone else.

We are all scarred, secrets stitched across our skin in pieces of stories we're not willing to share yet.

He carefully placed the cup on the chair beside the empty bed, balancing the bread on top since he hadn't bothered with a plate. Then he sat down on the edge of my bed himself, his eyes on me with an unreadable expression. I felt his gaze trace over my face, pausing on each bruise and cut, and I couldn't tell if he was waiting for me to speak or just cataloging the damage.

The silence stretched, tension winding tighter between us until finally, I broke it.

"Is that for me?" I asked, nodding toward the bread and coffee. The scent of fresh bread had stirred my stomach awake, and hunger gnawed at me.

He looked from me to the bread and back, an amused glint sparking in his eye.

"No." His hand brushed through his hair in that lazy, self-assured gesture that seemed so characteristically him.

Jerk, I thought, the word flashing in my mind.

"But if you want…" He let his voice trail away, taking the bread from its perch and rising to step closer. "We can share."

I smiled, warmth creeping into my cheeks despite myself. "Okay."

He sat down beside me and broke the loaf in two, pressing the larger piece into my hands. I took it greedily, teeth sinking into the hard crust. The bread was stale and tough, but after days of near nothing, it tasted like a feast.

"Good?" he asked, a hint of a smile curving his lips.

I nodded. "Yeah, thanks."

His eyes fastened on mine as we dined, the silence stretching but not so strained this time. I felt within me the quiet tug of curiosity heave and rise, my mind circling back to the scars carved across his face, the secrets they intimated. Unable to resist, I reached a tentative hand toward his cheek.

"What happened… to you?" I whispered, my fingertips hovering less than a millimeter from his skin. But before I could touch him, his hand whipped out to catch mine, fingers wrapping firmly around my wrist.

"Don't," he whispered, his tone edged with a soft warning.

My hand fell back to my lap as my heart began to pound in my chest.

"I'm sorry," I said softly, feeling both the sting of rejection and the need to understand.

His eyes dropped to the floor, voice low and gravelly, "I don't like being touched there." The scars almost appeared deeper, his jaw clenched. "I… wasn't in the best place when I did this. But it's a reminder that even when life tore me to pieces—I survived."

"That's… okay," I muttered, instinctively reaching for his hand. But he pulled it away, tension running along his frame. Despite myself, a small smile pulled at my lips. "Don't tell me you don't like holding hands either?"

He looked away, shifting uncomfortably. "I… don't," he whispered.

"Oh," I whispered, pulling back and sinking into the bed. I tugged the blanket up to my face, feeling the heat bloom over my cheeks. "I'm so sorry if I made you uncomfortable," I mumbled into the fabric, hoping he could still hear.

The blanket lifted from my face, and his gaze softened as it met mine. "You didn't," he said, a cautious smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I'm just worried that if you did, I'd be the one hurting you."

I let a smile form even though it tugged painfully at the bruises dotting my cheeks.

"Then… when the time is right," I whispered, steady but laced with something deeper, "you can."

He chuckled, the sound serving to ease up some of the tension in the room.

"Promise."

But my thoughts vanished, plucked back into the bog of panic.

"Where... where's Carlo?" I managed to whisper, barely audible.

"I spoke with my boss," he assured, his tone low and soothing. "He will deal with that tonight. For now… you need to rest."

As he stood to leave, he paused, something almost forgotten glimmering in his eyes.

"Oh, wait," he murmured, reaching into his jacket. "I almost forgot this." He handed me a worn and familiar notebook. His fingers lingered for just a second, meeting mine before he let go.

I clutched it, the weight of it grounding me, and whispered, "Thank you."

The response was to light up with a warm smile, brief but real, as he stepped to the door. "See you later."

The door latched shut, and I was left to the dim room alone, its silence almost comforting and company enough. The notebook lay serene against my lap, waiting. I opened it, holding a shaky breath. Two tarot cards slipped free instantly and floated down to lie in my lap face-up: Death and The Lovers.

My breath caught. For a wild moment, I could almost feel my grandmother's presence, her sly smile, the way she always seemed to know more than she let on. And those cards had such a comfortable feel to them... her, like a whisper.

I turned back to the notebook in my hands. And there, just beneath it, words sprang off the page—as if waiting for me all this time: "Tarot tells the truths we often don't dare to tell ourselves."

A quiet smile pulled at my lips as this reminded me of Grandma. Grandma knew how I liked those cards. She knew somehow that one day I was going to find where I belonged. I pushed another page, feeling the worn paper under my fingers, and there it was—a letter tucked between the pages, its date from some years after my mother disappeared.

Rocco,

Hope this letter finds you in the best of health and spirits.

I know that I made a big mistake leaving you there; that is my only regret. But I do know we will meet again someday.

I now have three beautiful children who depend on me. When they grow older, someday, I will tell them stories about us. I will tell them that you were the one who saved me from falling apart. Vincenzo doesn't understand much yet—even that Chiara does not belong to him. He does know that I was in the Circle and that I had to run from there, but since he discovered this fact, he has changed. It's as if he resented me for it. But I'm good at playing along. The kids don't even suspect a thing. I never loved him, Rocco. You were the only one I ever did.

But if you feel by the end as I do now, meet me at the maze on the night the House of Clowns hosts its ninth performance in the year 2022. I'll be waiting.

Love, Arianne

My fingers drifted to my lips, tracing the breathless silence that had fallen over me. I grasped the notebook in my hands, its pages dog-eared and faded from touch, a person I would never know yet who, in another important way, had always been a part of me. Though I had assumed this belonged to my mother, it was his—it was my real father's.

The pieces fell into place, but they also shattered just that easily. Who am I? Not my mother, who sought to shield us behind walls that broke far too easily. Not my father, a shadow who was lost even before I could have known him. I was just… me. But the bruises, the raised voices, the ache in my bones —those were whispers of her battles. She hadn't left us; she'd fought for us in ways I was only now beginning to understand.

And when she did make that final decision, she left out of love—or maybe because she didn't have any other choice.

But in this stranger's bed, the man who pulled me from the ruins of that home was the first time I'd known a different sensation—safety. A warm peace around the pieces of me that had been so sharp and fractured for so long. And then I knew why she did it. She had to, even if she had to let us go; I understood her choice.

Now, finally, the cards made sense. Love was a double-edged promise that could pull you under into the depths to leave you buried in darkness, or it could mark another kind of ending—a different kind of end at a new beginning. It would depend upon my choice: allow love to take me under, or let it be a spark to ignite something I'd mold just the way I wanted.