Fragile Crystal: Rubies and Rivalries (The Crystal Fragments Trilogy) (26 page)

Moving her eyes around the room, she alighted on a sketch, one of the earliest she had done that remained in this place. She had not drawn it here, however. Rather it was a dark shape with a smaller, feminine figure curled up in winged arms both threatening and protective. When she saw it, a memory of Comrie flashed into her mind and a sob burst from her chest, hurting her as it escaped.

It was no good. It was too much. It was over, over. Letting the wine glass fall from her hand, treading into the broken glass but uncaring as it slashed her bare feet, blood red wine spilling across the floor, she went across to the wall and tore the picture from it. Holding it in her hands, looking at it for the last time, her heart felt as though it would burst in grief as she took hold of each edge and tore it in two, folding those scraps together and tearing again and again until all that remained of the paper was ragged confetti.

She went along, alternating between rage and grief, yanking down images and ripping and tearing. She tried to tear the canvases but she was too weak, so instead she kicked at them with her bare feet, smearing them with blood, and when that didn’t work she took up one of her palette knives and stabbed the unforgiving surfaces relentlessly.

The carnage took her more than an hour. She attacked the table where she had worked, so carefully and joyously mixing her paints, sweeping her arms across the jars and palettes, the brushes and knives, smashing them to the floor. Once, when she stood down hard on broken glass, she lifted her foot and gasped in agony, but as she saw what she had done she placed her foot down with grim determination and ground the glass into her heel.

Her sobs were stifled as she tore and wrecked, until, at last, nothing but chaos remained around her. Her eyes were red and glittering, but the tears would not come. She felt strangled rather than relieved, furious that her catharsis was not complete, that she could not forget everything. Would she have to burn everything? Destroy the entire building to give herself peace?

And then she saw it, amidst the chaos of the jars and broken brushes. A small wooden sculpture, inset with amethyst. One of the brass tines in the tear-shaped space had broken, and there were some dents in the wood as well as smears across its surface. Her heart kicked inside her when she viewed it. No! It was enough for her to destroy her own work, not her father’s.

She bent down and retrieved it, lifting it carefully. It was damaged but not broken, and the wood felt smooth and warm in her skin. She could get rid of everything else that Daniel Stone had ever given her, but not this. For a second, she had the painful memory of the wilful, destructive girl tied to her bed, screaming at her father as he attempted to discipline her, but this immediately gave way to a kinder figure, sitting in his workshop as she rested on his lap, helping him score and polish wood and stone.
It is hard, but we endure
.

As she slid down the wall, she cradled the sculpture to her chest, the baby she would never have, a child still contained in its egg, waiting to be born. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she sobbed, tears flowing down her face freely now. “I love you, I love you!” The words burst out, but she could not tell who they were for. Yet the object in her hands, smooth and strangely feminine, was warmer and more comforting than she could ever have imagined.

Chapter Twenty-Two

She could not face the chaos she had created in her studio the next day, nor the day after that, but she felt a little calmer. She made a desultory effort to clean the rest of her flat, throwing out the empty bottles and even bathing herself. Her hair hurt, however, when she tried to wash it so she gave up on the task. She had no intention of going anywhere or being seen by anyone, so what did it matter?

The knock on her door on the third morning was persistent and annoying. She was at last enjoying some kind of fitful sleep and now one of her neighbours had taken it upon himself to disturb her. She could even hear his muffled shouting echoing faintly.

Looking at her clock, she saw that it was after nine and cursed him, whoever he was. Sleep had been sweet and blissfully dreamless, and now she was woken to another empty day. She pulled on a dirty T-shirt and left her legs bare, determined to show him how little she cared for any of his complaints.

Yet when she entered the hallway, something made her shudder. Evidently he had heard her footsteps because the banging stopped. Yet she did not move again, but stood there, suddenly frightened.

“Kris!” the voice called out. “Kris! Are you there?”

Her heart stopped when she heard him. She recognised that voice instantly, but still she called out: “Who is it?”

“Daniel!” he shouted back. “Please, Kris. Open the door. Please!”

“Go away,” she cried out. No! a voice inside her screamed. Open it. Let him in. “Go away and leave me alone. I don’t want to see you!”

There was silence on the other side of the door. “You must. Please!”

That made her grind her teeth. “I must? I
must
? Fuck you, Daniel! You made it quite clear what you thought of me. Go to hell, and take that French bitch with you!”

Again there was silence, but the following noise disturbed her. Was that... laughter? Was he laughing at her? In a fit of fury she ran to the door and pulled it open.

He was indeed laughing, but she also saw immediately that tears were streaming down his face, his scars burned white against the redness of his cheeks, the edges of his eyes scored and raw. And when he saw her, a panoply of emotions ran across his features, wonder but also amazement and horror.

“What’s... what’s happened to you? Are you okay?”

“What do you fucking think? What do you fucking care, Daniel?” She made to slam the door in his face, even as her body was aching to reach out and touch him, to grab him, kiss him, push him to the floor and fuck him violently. Just before she could close it completely on him, he thrust his hand between the edge of the door, catching it. She yanked it back, slamming it against his hand again and he yelled in pain.

“Fucking hell! Shit! What are you doing, Kris? Please, open the door!”

Grim but relenting, she opened it slowly, her face burning as she looked at him. She could be as malevolent as any crow, and the state of her as the door drew back, revealing her tangled hair and gaunt features, was obviously a frightening sight to Daniel. He drew back slightly, but not before placing the tip of his foot in the doorway so that she would not be able to slam it shut again. He was nursing his hand, pressing it beneath his armpit and rubbing it with the other.

“That hurt.”

“No more than you deserve.”

He paused and looked away from her red, angry eyes. “No, I guess not. Can I come in?”

“Why? Can’t find someone to fuck? Why not try Maria Gosselin again? She’s gagging for you?”

His eyes flashed angrily at this, but he calmed himself immediately. He shook his head and lowered his gaze. “Can I come in?” he asked once more, quietly this time.

She stood to one side. She hated herself at that moment. Her body was stiff, resolute, cloaked in an invisible armour from head to toe, but still she wanted to jump on him, to wrap her slender legs around him, to taste his mouth on hers, to squeeze his cock hard and feel his fingers inside her. As he walked past, still not looking at her, she almost fell because of the trembling in her legs.

He finally raised his head and looked around. “Nice,” he said, inanely. “I can see what you mean about it being a home.” She was looking at him though he did not return her gaze, did not dare to. Although not in the same state as her, it was clear that he had not shaved for several days, his stubble beginning to come through. For a painful, pitiful moment, she thought of Daniel Logan and Comrie. Immediately, however, she closed down the shutters of her mind, blocking out the thought.

As he glanced across the hallway, he saw the door half open onto her studio. He began to walk across and she lifted one hand uncertainly. No, don’t go in there! But she lowered it again. Let him see—what did she care?

He nodded slowly, standing in the doorway, filling it with his large frame. Without looking back at her, he entered and knelt down, resting on his haunches as he reached out to pick up some tattered piece of paper, a broken canvas.

He seemed lost in meditation, looking at the shards of her art, and was so silent that finally she felt she could do nothing but move behind him.

“I’m sorry,” he told her quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

His voice was as broken as the canvas he held in his hands, and as she looked down at him she realised that tears were streaming down his face. In his hands was a torn painting of a man with wings, his body scarred and battered, everything ruined where she had slashed and hacked at the surface. Despite herself, she placed a hand on his shoulder and he immediately raised his own, grasping her wrist tightly. His sobs were loud, as grief-stricken as her own had been. “What did I do? What did I do?”

Her heart could be as stone no longer. She had not forgiven him, but even had he been a total stranger she could not have ignored such raw pain. Self-pity it may have been, but mingled with it was such despair that her own heart began to grow tender once more.
It is hard, but we endure
.

Kneeling beside him, she placed her arms around his shoulders and he pressed his head into her neck. She rocked backwards and forwards, consoling him slightly. Inside, she wanted to hurt him for the pain he had caused her to suffer, but she also wanted to heal.

When his head came up, blind and fumbling, his lips searching for her own, warm and wet, she opened her mouth and took him inside herself. His hand was clambering up her body, pushing past the smooth thigh, seeking the warmth of her torso and her breast. That was too much—and she pulled away from him, pushing him back.

“No,” she said simply and stood up. Her gaze as she looked down on him, however, was firm rather than angry, and he nodded. When his own eyes fell back down again, he noticed her feet.

“Christ!” he muttered. “What have you done to your feet?”

She had cleaned them in the bath, but it was clear that the wounds inflicted by the glass were not healing well, the skin splitting and showing bright red gashes, crusted with blood. This shocked him out of self-pity and he reached a hand across to her, touching her gently. She winced as his fingers made contact and his eyes shot up to hers, determined and clear.

“Come on,” he said. “We need to get you to a hospital.”

She sighed. “Yes,” she said at last. “I guess I’ve been pretty stupid for the past few days. Dying from a foot infection wasn’t my idea of a romantic exit from this world, however.”

He laughed at this and slowly raised himself to his feet, pressing down on his thighs with his hands. His eyes were still red, but there was a warmth in them now, mingled with a hope as he looked down on her tenderly.

She turned her head away, not willing to let him look into her soul. “I better get ready, otherwise the staff will think you’ve abducted me and turn us both over to the police. After what’s happened recently, I don’t think I can stand another drama so quickly.”

He smiled and nodded, turning to look out of the window as she went to the bathroom. She pulled the grubby shirt over her head and strip-washed in the basin, rubbing soap and lukewarm water underneath her armpits and around her breasts. These were more sensitive than she had imagined, the nipples stiff and tender beneath her fingertips. She also realised that between her legs was moist, but she shook her head and continued to clean herself.

When she tried to brush her hair, the snags and tangles of her locks were too painful and she smashed her brush against the mirror in frustration. That was when she realised he was standing behind her, leaning in the doorway and watching her. She turned to face him, naked, not entirely sure if she cared about what he saw. His own smile was sad.

“I miss you,” he said.

She didn’t know what to say about this and so turned to the mirror instead, retrieving the brush and attempting to untangle her hair once more. “It’s no good,” she said, more irritated than furious now.

He moved behind her, and the closeness of him against her bare flesh made her tremble. He lifted his hand and slowly raised one of her tangled locks. Without saying a word, he leaned across her towards the mirror, opening it and pulling out a pair of scissors. As his arm brushed her shoulder, she felt herself stirring down below, but she clenched her jaw and did not move.

“What are you doing?”

“Do you remember in the Waldorf, when you told me you were thinking of cutting this off?”

She nodded, frowning slightly as his hands moved behind her head.

“Come on, we better make you presentable for the hospital.”

His touch was incredibly gentle, his fingers barely brushing her neck as he lifted strands of her hair, carefully moving the blades of the scissors across them. Glancing down, she noticed the dark curls falling to the floor. My hair, she thought to herself, a little sad for a moment. But as she watched it drift down and collect in waves at her feet, she felt strangely distant from it.

Moving her eyes upwards, she nearly laughed when she saw the expression on Daniel’s face. He was gazing down intently, his tongue protruding between his teeth as he concentrated on the task at hand. She stifled her mirth however and watched him silently while his hands moved back and forth.

It took much longer than it should have, but she was patient (not a little because she worried that a sudden move would cause her to receive a painful nick in the ear or neck). When he had finished, the job was hardly the neatest she had ever seen, but certainly much better than she would have expected. There was something about the face staring back at her with short hair cropped above her ears and her fringe much shorter that was odd, however, something she was having trouble placing her finger on.

When she realised what it was, she lifted her hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp.