31. Chapter 31

I clutch tightly to Amelia's hand as we exit the bedroom.

Maybe it's just my imagination, but the hallway leading from the bedroom to the living room has never seemed so long before.

From here, trekking the distance seems daunting.

I know it's only because I dread what waits at the other end.

My truth.

Like an episode of Scooby Doo, the gang's all gathered tonight to discuss … me.

Or, more accurately, the issue of Dante's whereabouts, and why he took me in the first place.

Well, to them, this was the first place.

To me, the second.

But they don't know that, and the time's finally come for me to tell someone my deepest, darkest secret.

That at one time, I was not only capable of murder but was convinced I'd actually committed one.

Surprisingly, living with that knowledge was easier than you'd think.

Easier than remembering all the things that came before it, anyway.

And definitely easier than the idea that someone would eventually find out what I did.

Now, the time's come when I need to actually put a voice to the actions of my past.

Releasing a shaky breath, my footsteps halt.

Beside me, Amelia stops, too, turning to look at me with pitiful eyes.

The emerald green of my best friend's gaze glitters with unshed tears, the water only lending to the multifaceted color.

I hate seeing pity in her face, but I brace myself for the eventuality that it's only going to get worse.

"I don't know if I can do this,"

I whisper.

Amelia takes my other hand in hers, and turns me so that we're face-to-face.

"You can.

You're the strongest person I've ever met.

You survived, and the retelling of it will never be as scary as living it over and over in your head every day."

The conviction in her voice and the unwavering confidence she has in me cements my resolve.

I straighten my spine and give her one firm nod of my head, but I still hold tight to one of her hands as we take the remaining steps down the hall and enter the living room.

As we walk in, all heads turn towards us, and it's as if I'm back on stage, standing in front of a large crowd, about to play a song that I don't really want to play, but I know I have to because they want it and I know it like the back of my hand.

The three men take up so much space in the small living room, bringing the walls in and making the air thick.

I don't realize how long I've been standing in the same spot, focusing on breathing until Amelia gently squeezes my hand.

Looking at her, she nods and finally releases my hand to sit next to her husband who's perched on one end of the sofa.

Alexi sits in the armchair beside the couple stoically.

His lack of emotion is actually helpful in this instance.

As much as I appreciate my best friend's sympathy and support, enough emotions are playing bumper cars inside me already.

The less that I have to deal with externally, the better.

As I survey the room at large, I realize that Deacon is the only one not sitting, instead choosing to stand between me and the others.

My romantic side whispers that it's because he needs to be closer to me.

His hands are in the pockets of his worn jeans, and at first glance, his stance would appear casual, but I know better.

He radiates aggression, and if I'm not mistaken, there's a trace of apprehension when my gaze meets his.

He knows whatever I'm about to divulge is gonna be bad, and he's already spoiling for a fight.

Despite my anxiety over the situation, I feel the sudden urge to go over and calm him.

To soothe his worry and assure him that everything will be okay.

But I can't because it won't.

Right now, the only person having to live with the knowledge of what happened to me is me.

Once I give voice to the nightmares I endured, everyone else in this room will have to live with them, too. I don't want that for them; these friends have somehow become more than friends. But I'm a firm believer in the philosophy that you can't know where you're going if you don't know where you've been. So, in order to move forward and finally put an end to this, everyone has to be on the same page, with the same knowledge. As I look into Deacon's eyes, I hope mine aren't projecting everything I'm feeling right now. I don't want him to see that I'm terrified that, after he hears everything Dante did to me, he won't look at me the same way. He won't want me anymore. Because I can't be sure that my eyes aren't giving me away, I tear my gaze from his as I walk over to sit in the only other empty chair in the room. The story, if told in its entirety, will be long, so I guess I should make myself comfortable. I keep my gaze trained on the floor, focusing on a small piece of frayed fabric on the area rug as I start at the beginning of what will be a turbulent tale .

"I was 16 when I met Dante.

He came backstage after one of my concerts.

He was charming, and flattering and I was … starved for affection.

So when he asked to take me to dinner, I said yes.

It didn't matter that he was much older or that I was underage.

I thought I was in love, and as many of the great love stories can confirm, that trumps everything, including the age of consent.

In the beginning, things were wonderful.

He took me to parties, dinners, and dancing.

We traveled, and he made me feel beautiful."

My voice drops to a whisper before I add, "I'd never felt beautiful before."

I pause to draw in a deep breath before continuing.

"The decline started small.

Little comments here and there about how much I ate, how absent my parents were, and how often I was on my own.

He took advantage of the fact that I didn't have anyone keeping tabs on me while at the same time, using it to further isolate me.

He weaponized my loneliness.

Over time, he made me think the only person in the world that loved me, could ever love me, was him.

The process was so gradual that I didn't realize what he was doing until I was already living with him.

By that time, it was too late.

I was already a prisoner, held by an invisible leash.

One made of insecurities and fear, and each link in the chain was stronger than the last.

I couldn't wear what I wanted, I couldn't go out, I couldn't talk to my family or my friends."

My eyes flit to Amelia's and my bottom lip trembles.

"I wanted so badly to call you, but so much time had passed that I was afraid you wouldn't recognize my voice.

I didn't.

I didn't know who I was anymore."

A tear slips down her cheek, one to mirror my own.

"Then I no longer had the option to call anyone.

That's when the real pain began.

There had always been punishments for bad behavior.

If he thought I'd looked at another man at a party, whether I had or not, I didn't get to eat for a day."

Releasing a small, humorless laugh, I add, "He said I could afford to miss a meal or two."

I shake my head ruefully.

"After a while, the punishments morphed from stolen liberties to actual pain.

A belt, a piece of cord … a razor."

I close my eyes as the memories flood me.

"Every time he'd cut me, he'd tell me how much he loved me.

He'd remind me that he was the only one in the world who cared about me; if I loved him, I'd wear his marks proudly.

His brand on me, each one, meant to teach me a lesson.

To behave, to not try to get away, to be what he needed me to be.

Property.

Subservient.

Eventually, I did become what he wanted.

But he still kept hurting me.

Sometimes, it was just physical punishment but, sometimes, it was more.

My first time was with a belt looped around my neck and fresh blood on my back.

It only got worse from there."

I see Deacon's body stiffen in my peripheral vision.

I keep going, knowing that if I let his anger distract me, I won't be able to get through the rest.

"At some point, I started going somewhere else, drifting away until I couldn't feel what was happening anymore.

But every time I drifted, it got harder and harder to come back.

I was afraid that one night, I'd simply float away.

That was the night I finally made the decision to get out.

I think he believed that he'd finally broken me down enough that he didn't have to worry about me trying to escape.

He became lax, no longer locking the door when he came in or out, as though I would never have the audacity to go against his rules—the arrogance.

One night, after he fell asleep, I slipped out of bed and tried to run.

One of his men caught me just before I reached the front door.

I put up a fight, which he didn't expect.

The noise woke Dante up, and I heard him coming down the stairs after me.

I managed to knock the guard out.

I don't know how, but when I looked down, his gun was in my hand.

I'd never held a gun before.

It was heavier than I thought it would be,"

I say, bemusement tinging my tone.

"When I looked up, Dante was in front of me, reaching for me.

So I lifted my arm and pulled the trigger.

My hand shook so badly that the first shot missed, but the second and third shots didn't.

I just kept pulling the trigger long after he'd dropped to the floor and the gun ran out of bullets.

There was so much blood, and he wasn't moving.

I dropped the gun, and I ran.

I took someone's car, I don't remember whose.

Probably the guards.

The keys were inside, and there was a wad of cash on the middle console.

In bare feet and a blood-stained t-shirt, I checked into a cheap roadside motel and dialed the only number I could remember."

I glance back to Amelia.

She's sitting with one hand held protectively over her belly while the other grips Merrick's tightly.

Her face is wet with tears.

His hand rests on her back, and he's sat forward in his seat on the sofa.

His overprotectiveness and need to comfort his wife is evident in his every move.

It actually makes me smile a little.

"I was afraid for a long time after.

I didn't sleep or eat much.

When I did sleep, I'd wake to the sounds of my own screams.

The nightmares were almost as bad as the experiences.

I was constantly looking over my shoulder.

But when one month turned into two, then three, and no one ever came after me, I assumed he was dead.

Then I had to stomach the knowledge that I'd taken someone's life."

My eyes meet Alexi's now.

"It was surprisingly easy to stomach."

His face remains passive, save for a slight quirk of his lips.

I continue, "I buried what happened to me and tried to move on with my life.

To actually live my life.

Then I climbed into my bed one night and woke up in someone else's.

I'm not gonna lie; when I realized who I was trapped in that room with, I went a bit hysterical.

Then I got pissed.

Really pissed.

It was clear that history was doomed to repeat itself but this time, I fought back."

Picking at my nails to keep my hands from shaking, I whisper, "It didn't change the outcome, though."

I focus on that spot on the rug again.

"So when the urge to float away came, I took it, and this time, I prayed not to come back.

Because I knew that if I did, I'd be lucid enough to do something far more drastic than killing someone else.

I was prepared for that."

At the sound of Amelia's small sob, I finally look up again.

But instead of looking at her, my gaze finally meets Deacon's.

He's still standing but far enough away, so that his presence over me doesn't feel intimidating.

His eyes, though, they're intimidating.

The clear blue practically crackles with electricity.

His jaw is tight, and he's gone from his hands in his pockets to his arms crossed over his broad chest.

His breathing is hard and heavy, and his nostrils flare slightly with every inhalation.

The urge to look away is strong, but I don't.

I keep my gaze trained on him as I say, "So, now you know.

I'm fucked up beyond repair."

He doesn't say anything, only continues to stare down at me.

I wish I knew what he was thinking.

Scratch that; I don't think I wanna know.

Because, despite all my bravado, deep down, I'm a coward.

I've spent years running from my past, and even before that, most of my life was spent accepting scraps because I never thought I deserved any better.

As Ms.

Jane Austen famously said, "My good opinion, once lost, is lost forever."

Any good opinions I may have had about myself were lost a long time ago.

Now that I've finished my story, the room falls silent and I realize I'm exhausted.

Whoever said emotional stress didn't take as much of a toll as physical stress could fuck right off.

Amelia is the first to stand, coming over to lean down and try to hug me.

I've never been big on hugs, but with the addition of her belly in the way and the fact that I'm still sitting, it isn't that hard to bear.

Before she releases me, she whispers, "I'm so proud of you."

I squeeze my eyes shut to keep them from producing more stupid tears.

Merrick rises and stands next to her as she straightens, one hand at the small of her back.

He rests the other briefly on my shoulder.

Glancing down at me, he says, "You did what you had to do.

He earned it.

If he's still alive, we still have a debt to settle."

I don't miss the way he said "we,"

as though my problems are their problems.

I guess that's what real families did for each other.

His brown eyes are unwavering in their intensity, and I have no doubt that the same man rubbing the base of his pregnant wife's back is capable of murder under the right circumstances.

I give a small nod of agreement.

They step away to share a few words with Deacon, but I don't hear them.

I feel like a zombie as I stare off into space.

That is until I realize that Alexi has moved from his spot across the room to the end of the sofa closest to me.

" Istseleniye nevozmozhno poschitat', vzvesit' ili izmerit'.

Ono menyayetsya kazhdyy den', prosto otkryvaya glaza ."

At my blank look, he smiles softly and translates.

Healing cannot be counted or weighed or measured.

It's re-defined every day, simply by opening your eyes.

On that note, he stands and makes his way over to the others.

The time that follows is a blur.

They could be talking for minutes or hours while I sit, staring off into the distance.

The three of them leave quietly soon after, and I'm thankful for the lack of goodbyes.

I think they could tell after all I've divulged, I don't think I have much left in me to say.

As Deacon closes the door behind them and I listen to the sounds of their cars pulling away, I stand.

I know I'll have to talk to him eventually, but every minute I stall is another minute that I don't have to see the rejection on his face.

Without turning around, I say, "I'm tired.

I'm gonna take a shower and go to bed."

Not giving him a chance to reply, I make a beeline for the hallway and run like the coward I am.