Chapter 6 - Stone

Keeping my eyes off of Callum is getting more and more damn difficult.

There are more reasons than one for why I haven’t allowed myself to look at him when he takes his shirt off. It’s not just out of respect because I know how much it probably bothered him that I had seen him that day.

I’m sure he still has scars.

Between the protective side of me and the beast, I’m not sure how they would react at seeing them. Those two halves of me would blend together, ignite like a match, and cause some kind of cosmic explosion.

Without anyone left to kill for him, they’d have nothing to feast on.

They’d end up feasting on him instead.

They’ve already reared their ugly heads when it came to provoking him enough to unleash some of that pent up fury. Sure, I’ve caused a lot of it. But I meant everything I told him. He needs to be able to face me off the ice if we have any chance of playing well together on it.

Clearly I was right.

It was worth the swollen, split lip.

A few of the guys asked me about it during practice.

“You know. The classic ran into a door,” is what I told them.

“Piss someone off, huh?” Brooks had asked with a smirk. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

Unlike Callum, Brooks doesn’t hold a grudge.

Fortunately, we’ve had several more successful practices over the past week. And it hasn’t cost me another split lip, so that’s a plus.

Even Fitz is improving.

Our first game is in two weeks, and I’m feeling a hell of a lot more confident about it than I was when I first got here. I wasn’t sure if Callum and I were ever going to actually be able to play like a team, but our chemistry on the ice is surprisingly undeniable. With every pass, the puck finds our tape as if there’s a tether connecting us, constantly aware of each other’s presence. Our speed is matched, always the first two to reach the blue line on sprint drills.

Off the ice, however, is still another matter.

I’ve continued sitting next to him in our anatomy class. Mostly because I can’t seem to leave him alone. In my defense, at least I’ve made more of an effort to be less irritating.

He still shoots me those occasional glares of his like he wants to punch me again. Our verbal sparring might have died down some, but it’s been replaced by a lot of tense silence. However, he’s no longer demanding or begging me to leave him alone.

Progress. Baby steps.

Let’s call it part of off-ice conditioning.

Our first lab is today, and when I get to the classroom, Callum is already there.

I probably shouldn’t.

But of course I’m going to anyway.

Walking across the room to the lab table he’s sitting at, I plop my ass onto the stool right beside him.

He looks up from his sketchbook, and his jaw immediately goes tight.

“No,” he says as he shakes his head. “No fucking way are we going to be lab partners. Haven’t you tortured me enough as it is?”

I could show him a thing or two about torture.

“Trust me. This is definitely not torture.”

“I disagree,” he mutters as he shuts his sketchbook.

“Come on.” I take my lab manual out of my bag and drop it on the table. “I’ve done most of these labs before. You’ll have an advantage.”

He rolls his eyes. “I don’t need an advantage.”

“I’m sure you don’t.” I shrug, grinning. “But, hey, you’re welcome to use me.”

His eyes immediately dart away, leaving my grin to only widen. I watch as he violently shoves his sketchbook into his bag to trade it out for his own lab manual. He places it on the table, then rests his elbows on top of it. With his chin in his hands, he stares at the front of the room.

“Silent treatment again?”

“Just shut up.”

“You know that’s a tall order.”

“Yeah, I’m well aware.”

I laugh quietly but remain silent until the professor walks into the class. Since we’ve already had several lectures, she doesn’t spend much time with an introduction. She tells us a bit of what’ll be expected and where we can find certain equipment around the room. When she instructs us to grab the lab papers from the front and colored pencils from the cabinet in the back, Callum stands first.

“I’ll get them,” he says.

It doesn’t take him long to return, dropping papers and a box in front of each of us. My box is ripped, revealing its contents of several short, broken, unsharpened pencils. Of course, his looks brand new.

“How kind of you, Callum.”

His grin feels like mine being thrown back at me. “You’re welcome.”

Okay. I deserve that.

“Everyone, please turn to page fifteen of your lab manuals and begin on the lab for bones and the skull,” the professor says from the front of the room. “You don’t really need a partner for this one, but you’re welcome to work together.”

No surprise, Callum takes that to mean he’s meant to work completely and utterly alone. He even angles his body away from me as he opens his book.

I let him get away with it for now.

We both open our boxes of pencils. I dump all the pieces of mine out on the table while Callum eases his out a few inches so they’re easy to grab. I have to bite back a mocking comment as I turn my focus to read over the instructions on the first page of the lab.

There are six papers, each one showing a different view of the human skull, lines breaking them into sections so we can color and label the facial and cranial bones. I pick up an orange pencil and get started on the anterior view, coloring in the frontal bone first.

Meanwhile, Callum has a red pencil in his hand, the sharpened tip hovering over the skull on his page.

I peer over without lifting my pencil off the paper.

It’s like he’s frozen, staring down at the figure with his brow furrowed. His hand starts to tremble.

I swear he’s holding his breath.

I think I hold mine too, though I’m not sure why.

When he finally moves to shade in the right temporal bone, I relax and get back to my own work. I have no idea what the hell that was about, but I know if I asked, he’d tell me to fuck off.

After filling in and labeling the frontal bone, I switch out the orange pencil for the yellow and move on to the maxilla, wanting to get the larger areas out of the way first. I’m nearly finished with that one when I realize Callum still hasn’t swapped his pencil for a different color.

Looking over at his page, I nearly drop my own pencil.

He didn’t stop at the temporal bone. He’s colored in nearly half of the skull red.

Right now, the wax tip is digging into the paper over the optic canal, almost tearing straight through. His eyes are wide as he presses harder, moving the pencil feverishly back and forth as though he’s in some kind of trance.

“Callum.”

He doesn’t stop.

There’s a rip in the page now, color bleeding through onto the next one. But he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Callum?”

His grip around the pencil is so tight, knuckles white, tendons and veins popping. The pencil breaks in two, the wood splintering.

Callum seems to snap with it.

He drops both halves onto the table, blinking down at the paper drawn all over in red, like he’s seeing it for the first time. His chest is heaving, hands still trembling.

“Callum, are you—”

“I’m not feeling so well.” His voice comes out rough and breathless. “I have to go.”

Pushing himself off the stool looks like it takes more effort than it should. He snatches up his bag and darts through the classroom and out the door, turning a few heads in his flee for escape.

I know I probably shouldn’t go after him. I’m the last person he’d want to help him through whatever this is.

However, that tether between us is tugging on something in my chest.

Quickly collecting both of our lab manuals and papers, I stuff them in my bag and make my way out of the class, ignoring the lingering stares from everyone who’s looked up from their work.

When I get out into the hallway, I don’t have to go looking for Callum. He hasn’t made it far, leaning against the wall a few doors down. I approach slowly. His gaze is wide, staring off into space as his chest rises and falls rapidly.

Fuck.

There are a few people walking up and down the hall, so I peer in through the window of the nearest door. It’s an empty classroom.

“Come on, Callum.”

He doesn’t fight or argue as I grab onto his arm, open the door, and pull him into the room. After closing the door, I help him lean against the wall beside it. His gaze is still far away, possibly not even aware of where he’s at. When I step into his space, his warm breath sawing in and out of his lungs fans against my cheeks.

I weigh my options, ultimately knowing I need to ground him.

Taking another step until we’re inches apart, I place my hands on the sides of his face.

His eyes focus, locked on mine, and his breathing completely stops.

“Shit. Sorry.”

I take a step back, but I’m halted when Callum’s hand shoots out and fists the front of my shirt.

What—

He starts to hyperventilate again. His eyes haven’t left mine, and he’s trembling all over.

“Okay, okay.” I move forward again and gently take his face back between my hands. “I’m right here. You’re safe.”

I don’t know who’s holding whose gaze hostage, but neither of us seem to be able to look away. His skin heats my palms, and he’s got a death grip on my shirt. There’s a sea of pain and fear behind his wide, brown eyes.

I have no idea what to make of this, but I have to do something before he passes out.

“I need you to breathe with me, Callum. Can you do that for me?”

He doesn’t respond, but I didn’t expect him to.

“Come on. Breathe in and count to five.”

I take a deep breath, willing him to do the same. He does, his chest shaking as I count to five in my head.

“Now let it out slowly.”

Again, he does.

“That’s good. You’re doing really good. Now again.”

We go through it a few more times until his breathing matches my own. He’s relaxed enough for his grip on my shirt to ease up, but he still hasn’t let go.

I don’t think I want him to.

“You’re okay.” I’m not sure when my thumbs started tracing the apples of his cheeks, but he’s not pulling away. So I don’t stop. “Keep breathing just like that. I’m not going anywhere, okay? Just give it some time. You’ll be alright.”

He swallows hard. When he speaks, his voice is wrecked and raw. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I won’t let you not be.”

His brows draw together.

He licks his lips.

My eyes track the movement of his tongue.

The weight on my shirt disappears as he suddenly releases me. I take that as my cue to drop my hands and take a step back to give him space.

We both continue to watch each other cautiously. I pay close attention to his breathing, making sure he’s not going to fall back into the attack. He seems mostly calm now, but all the blood is still drained from his face.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

He shakes his head. “I just wanna get out of here.”

I don’t want to let him go, but I do. I watch as he turns, opens the door, and walks out.

Leaning my ass back against the nearest desk, I open my bag and pull out the lab papers that got crinkled in my haste to shove them inside. I shuffle them until Callum’s is on top.

This clearly wasn’t the work of Callum the artist. He colored in nearly the entire right side of the skull, red bleeding out of the lines. The pressure of each stroke of the pencil varies, getting harder the closer he got to the eye socket where there’s that tear through the page.

The longer I stare at it, the more vivid my memories come back to me.

A dimly lit kitchen, only illuminated by the glow of the streetlamp pouring in. The stench of stale alcohol. A large man nearly twice my size. The weight of the brick in my hand as I smashed it into his face.

I didn’t stick around obviously, but I remember the way his right eye popped while he was still alive. The way his skull caved in as I struck him over and over.

I don’t remember much about any of my kills since my first three, but for some reason, that one stuck with me more than the rest. Maybe because I knew Callum. Even though I tried hard not to make it personal, it was difficult to forget what I had seen. To forget what that man had done to him.

For the past five years, I’ve forced myself to forget by thinking of Callum somewhere safe. Somewhere no one else could hurt him.

When I killed for him, it undoubtedly sparked every protective instinct I had. I snuffed it out, made sure the flames were extinguished. Apparently, a few embers remained.

I can’t deny this growing protectiveness I feel over him.

Even if it’s protecting him from himself.

Because as I stare down at the paper half colored in red, I realize whose skull he was painting with blood.

I was only eighteen at the time. While I was always careful, disposing of or thoroughly cleaning murder weapons and not leaving any fingerprints behind, I think there was one big mistake I might’ve made.

I hadn’t thought of the repercussions of killing the man in his own home, of letting Callum find his stepdad dead in the kitchen.

All that blood.

Half his face gone.

The man who raised him.

How badly did I fuck him up?