Chapter 19

I don’t know when silence settles like a heavy, suffocating blanket. I’ve stopped rocking, and now I’m seated in the corner of the wardrobe with my arms around my knees, staring at nothing.

Time moves slowly, or maybe fast? I don’t even know. I’m too scared to move or make a noise. Even my breathing seems loud. The only time I remember silence this thick was when my daddy got a visit from some friends. At least, that’s what he called the tall men in front of me as I peered out from behind my daddy’s long legs.

“Darian, be a good boy and play in your room while Daddy talks to his friends.”

The way they looked at Daddy didn’t seem very friendly.

Before I had a chance to leave, one of the men walked his fingers in the air and said, “Run along now, kid.”

Mommy called them Pawns. Whatever that means. Pawns who were doing their leader’s “dirty work.”

Building up my courage, I unfold and slowly crawl forward to peek through the slats. Orange streaks of the morning sun stream through the blinds, casting stripes on the wall where Daddy slumps.

He’s still staring at me.

“Mommy? Where are you?” I whisper as I push the wardrobe door open, careful not to make a noise in case one of the bad men is still here.

No one is around, so I crawl into the room. “Daddy?”

He doesn’t move a muscle.

I step over to him, settling on my knees in the pool of blood around him. My pajama pants soon soak through at the knees as I wave a hand in front of his face. “Daddy? Are you awake? Where does it hurt, Daddy?”

He still doesn’t move. Is this like the movie Bambi? His mommy never moved again, and neither did Littlefoot’s mommy.

I choke on a pitiful sob and shake my daddy’s shoulder. He’s cold to the touch. Cold and stiff. “Daddy!” My voice is louder this time. “Please, wake up.” I stroke his shirt, my eyes blurry with tears. “This isn’t funny anymore. Please, wake up.” Staring at the spot where I’m repeatedly stroking his shoulder so I don’t have to look at the hole in his forehead, my tears spill over.

A heavy ache presses on my chest, and I clutch the fabric before releasing it again.“I don’t know where Mommy is, Daddy.” My voice breaks. “The bad men took her.”

I lift my gaze to Daddy’s face. His glazed eyes are milky, and his skin is paler than usual, which makes the streak of blood between his brows look like red paint, only darker.

I’m scared. I promised Mommy I would be brave, but I don’t feel it at all. I’m weak, and I hate being weak. Daddy says the weak disappear in our world.

“Daddy!” I shout, shaking him hard.

Why won’t he wake up? He can’t leave me here. I’m alone. I don’t know where Mommy is.

Daddy slides down the wall and topples to the side. I scramble back, my hands slipping in the cold blood beneath my fingers. Breathing hard, I struggle to see Daddy through my stinging tears.

“Daddy… Please…”

Seated on the hard concrete floor in the cellar, staring at the gun in my hand, the haunted voice of my younger self echoes through my mind. Even now, the hopelessness that clawed at me as I sat in a pool of my father’s congealing blood crawls back in from the blackened corners of my soul. The young boy is still alive inside me, but I don’t know if I have enough left to be strong for both of us.

A shadow shifting in my periphery tears me from my thoughts.

Cecilia’s father watches me from behind the bars, where he rests against the back wall with his grimy hands dangling off his knees.

A torch flickers on the wall as I take solace in the weapon in my hand. It’s the only semblance of control I have left. I could lift my arm, aim it at his head, pull back on the hammer, and end this nightmare once and for all.

So what’s stopping me?

I feel my chin wobble as the burn behind my eyes intensifies, so I swipe the vodka bottle off the floor and press it to my lips.

“You’re lost.” His gravelly, unused voice draws me out of my haze of pity.

“Whose fault is that?”

He remains silent. Forever my tormentor.

A violent wave of anger rips through me, and I throw the vodka bottle at the wall, watching glass shatter everywhere as I remain seated in a sea of jagged shards, broken and alone. “I thought revenge would feel good.” My voice barely carries.

His dirty feet slide over the floor as he lowers his legs and crawls closer to the rusty bars. I sense him studying me, but I keep my attention on the gun in my hand, the only thing tethering me to reality.

“I locked you up and took away your freedom. I punished you the only way I knew how.” The broken organ in my chest clenches, but I resist rubbing it better. “And then, I found the only thing you care about in this world and entrapped her, too.” I look at him, observing the deep wrinkles on his gaunt, sunken face. The years haven’t been kind to him. “If anything, I feel worse. It’s like…” My chin begins to wobble, so I break eye contact and tighten my jaw to wrangle the onslaught of unwelcome, painful emotions.

Why the fuck does the past have to hurt? Even now, the memories slice at me like countless knives.

I skate my eyes to him again. “So tell me, what do I do now?”

He drops his gaze to the gun in my hand, and I feel its weight. “You let go of the past.”

“I can’t. Not until I find out the truth about what happened to my mother that night. Every detail.”

“You’re killing yourself, Darian.”

“WHY WON’T YOU TELL ME THE TRUTH?” I roar, overcome with anger, desperation, and grief.

Ragged, heavy breaths tear at my chest like daggers while we stare at each other in the flickering torchlight. When he stays silent, I stand on shaky legs.

Unfortunately, I can’t make him talk no matter how hard I press, beg, or rage. The truth remains sealed behind his cracked lips, and one day soon, it’ll follow him into the grave.

Broken glass crunches underfoot as I walk back out with slumped shoulders.

His voice reaches my ears. “Do you think the truth will help you heal? That it will somehow patch you together and make you feel better?”

Stiffening, I pause in the doorway.

“Wake up, Darian. Wake the hell up!”

I reach into my pocket and slide out my mom’s heart pendant necklace, the tarnished silver adding to its aged beauty.

“I know you’re scared, but you have to be a big boy for me. Can you do that? You need to be brave, okay?”

“I know you want to hurt my daughter to get back at me. To take the most precious thing from me, like I took your family. But all you’re doing is hurting yourself.”

As I palm the heart pendant in my fist, the ache behind my ribs intensifies until I’m forced to inhale or drown in this sea of sorrow.

“End this, Darian. Before it’s too late.”

I swiftly exit the cellar, jaw clenched, taking the steps two at a time before entering the kitchen, evading his toxic-laced knives that threaten to cut me wide open.

My conflicted thoughts battle it out as I place the gun on the island and rest my hands against the edge.

What will it take to make the memories of that night cease? Every time I let Cecilia beneath my skin, she unwittingly chips away at my carefully erected walls.

As a result of her gentle touches and even sweeter addictive kisses, the nightmares find cracks to seep through. How can she peel away my layers with so little effort? And why am I powerless and unwilling to stop her? A part of me is curious about the ease at which she unravels me.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

It was supposed to be easy.

Find her. Trap her. Break her.

Make her bend to my will.

Dropping my chin to my chest, I whisper a shaky “fuck.”

“Hey…” A hand lands on my back, sliding up between my shoulder blades, and I stiffen as Cecilia’s concerned voice creates irreparable fissures in my heart. “Are you okay?”

The pressing urge to shrug her off shouts loudly, but not as loud as the need to feel more of her touch, which burns through my T-shirt.

As I glance at her over my shoulder, I hold my breath.

“You’ve been drinking again.”

I say nothing, watching her eyes, her lips. Everything about her.

With a soft expression, she takes hold of my arms and guides me around so the island is at my back. Her hands slide a slow path up my chest, starting at my abs, then higher across the planes of my pectorals and shoulders, and then back down my arms. She interlaces her fingers with mine and cranes her neck to look me in the eye. “Sleep with me, Darian.”

“Sleep with you?”

Her gaze holds mine, vulnerable yet determined, as she leads me out of the kitchen and through the house, until we reach the entrance of her bedroom.

“Humor me,” she says, turning the handle behind her and backing into the room.

I willingly follow, our fingers interlaced. When she lets go of my hand to crawl into my bed, it dawns on me that I would go to war for the look in her eyes. No one has ever watched me like she is now, with her heart wide open for attack.

I sheath my sword and let her lead me into her trap. Crawling into bed, I settle beside her, and she snuggles against me.

“Will you promise me something?” she asks, hiking her smooth thigh over my leg and hugging me close.

I’m stiff, my heart pounding out of my chest.

“Maybe,” I croak.

The truth is, I would promise her anything right now. And if she asked me to rip the beating organ from my chest and die a bloody, agonizing death in the process, I would do it in a heartbeat.

“Stay with me,” she begs as she traces my nipple with a soft touch, making my throat jump on a swallow. “I want to wake up next to you, Darian Delacroix.”

Have I forgotten how to breathe? Yes, I have.

“Okay,” I whisper shakily.

She hugs me closer, and within minutes, she’s asleep. Me? I’m still holding my breath, worried I’ll crack open with my next inhale and bleed out onto her silk sheets.

It dawns on me that I’m scared, as I tentatively trace my fingertips over her smooth shoulder. Scared of what might crawl out of the wardrobe along with my memories if I let myself feel.

For years, I’ve entertained nothing less than exerting full control in all areas of my life, yet since Cecilia appeared, my control has seeped through the cracks left in her wake.

She’s an angel, and I’m her tarnished demon. She’s the blinding light to my dark, the only person with the power to break me, and I’m starting to think that maybe—just maybe—I want her to take a sledgehammer to my polished shell and crack it wide open. Maybe I want to give her the power to bring my ghosts to the surface.

Or maybe I’m weak.

Weak for her.