?Dominic?
I want blood.
I want torn bodies at my feet.
Never in my life have I been so consumed by blood-thirsty hunger to watch the slow torture and death of another person. But the way Isla is clinging to me, tiny frame shuddering with everything she had to endure alone, I want heads.
Starting with Macie.
In all the years I’ve known this bitch, I overlooked her underhanded comments, her sly remarks. I convinced myself Nick would say something. She’s his stepmom. I thought Isla would say something. But actually witnessing her truly demonic presence, I realize it’s so much worse than I expected. Watching her gouge her metaphorical talons into Isla and tear out her heart was an experience I will not let her live again.
“I got you,” I tell her softly over and over again. “Let it out.”
My top is soaked. The heat of her pain bleeds through to burn my skin, but I don’t care.
It seems too long and not long enough when she finally lifts her face. It’s blotchy and wet. Her lashes are damp spikes around an ocean of agony that hollows me out.
I say nothing when twisting the hem of my top around a fist and lifting it to gently wipe her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” she croaks.
My thumb sweeps over her lips. “I don’t want to hear that. You have nothing to be sorry for.”
Her chin quivers and my heart shatters as her eyes fill.
“I’m such a fucking mess.” She draws in a deep, shaky breath that exhales with a weak sob and fresh tears. “I can’t do… anything.”
The little catch in her chest breaks me.
I capture her chin. I start to tell her she’s wrong. That she’s the most perfect woman alive, but a third voice beats me to it.
“Get your things.”
Both Isla and I turn to the man standing rigid and angry behind me.
“Nick,” I say, the warning in my voice unmistakable.
His gray eyes meet mine, hot with impatience. “You want Macie to see her like this?”
That seems to be enough for Isla. She pulls out of my arms and rubs hurriedly at her cheeks. Her small hands shake as she smooths down her top and brushes her hair off her face.
“I’m okay,” she whispers. “I just need the washroom.”
Neither of us stop her when she sprints up the stairs.
Then it’s just me and my boyfriend and a million unspoken questions.
“What is wrong with you?” I demand. “What did you say to her?”
To his credit, Nick doesn’t shy away from my disappointment. “Nothing that isn’t true.”
I wait for him to elaborate, but he’s fixated on the landing at the top, brows a knitted crease between his eyes.
To an outsider, the hard set of his jaw, the rigid posture of his shoulders mirrors his every day expression, but I’ve known this man since our diaper days. I know him better than I know myself, and I know he’s furious. He’s caught in a battle, a difficult dilemma I’m useless to help with.
“Getting the bags,” is the only response I get when he turns and heads back in the direction of the kitchen.
I know I’m not done with him. He can avoid me now, but that won’t be the case once we’re alone in the middle of nowhere.
