One memory drifts to the surface, its sharp edges scraping against the inside of my brain. It’s the one that forces itself to the forefront no matter what I do.
“I tried to convince her not to go on that date with Lionel. I waspissed she was moving on from my dad. But she wanted to go, so she did, and that’s all there was to it. The last time I saw her, I was so fucking angry.” The admission tastes like acid, eating away at my throat as it pours from my tongue.
It’s not only guilt I carry for the way I treated her, but shame. And so much goddamn regret, it could keep me fed for a dozen lifetimes.
“I was at that age when I was too old for my mother’s affection, so we found a compromise. One of us would blow a kiss, and the other would pretend to catch it and kiss our fist.”
I try to swallow, but my body is overflowing with shame, and there’s nowhere for the saliva to go.
“She blew me a kiss on her way out the door, and I refused to catch it. I instantly regretted it, but I was too stubborn to call out for her to come back. If I had, Lionel would’ve known I was there and saw him, and there’s a good chance she would’ve come home that night.”
The grief unleashes in my body all at once. Swelling my tongue until it chokes me, making it nearly impossible to breathe. Caving in my chest and crushing my heart until it bursts into pieces so tiny, it ceases to exist. Weakening my bones until they struggle to support me. It’s an all-consuming type of agony. It invades every one of my senses and embeds itself inside me so deeply, it becomes a part of my DNA. It will remain as permanent as the color of my eyes or the shape of my smile.
I grind my molars as tears rush to the surface. I clench my fists tightly, tremors rattling my bones from the effort to keep them at bay.
I jolt when I feel Reverie’s small hand wrap around mine. It’s instinct to relax, allowing her soft fingers to thread with mine.
My brows draw forward as I look down at our linked hands through blurred vision, wondering how the fuck I got here—howwegot here.
Even more, I wonder when the fuck she made me fall in love with her.
A single tear slips down my cheek, but it’s impossible to wipe it away. Between the grief and the revelation I’m completely, fuckingoutrageously, in love with the daughter of my mother’s murderer, I’m frozen.
One D’Amour shattered my goddamn heart, and another stole the pieces for herself, assembling them into some fucked-up rendition of what a heart is supposed to be. I don’t know if it even works anymore, but quite frankly, I don’t fucking care. It’s hers to deal with now.
“I know there isn’t a single thing I could say to make you feel better,” she begins softly. “But if you want the truth, part of me is glad Lionel got out.”
I blink, almost sure I didn’t hear her right. Slowly, I turn to meet her steady gaze.
“There’s an opportunity to kill him now. And…” She shrugs, almost sheepishly. “It’s one I’d happily take. Or even let you take, just as long as he dies.” She pauses for a beat before tacking on, “Maybe make him suffer first, though.”
I don’t know if it’s possible to fall in love twice, but it doesn’t feel like enough. The agony doesn’t dissipate—I’ve learned that it never will—but it does ease, making it a little easier to breathe.
“You’re wrong,” I rasp, my voice raw and deep as I face forward again. “That did make mefeel a little better.”
It’s been years since I’ve cried—even longer since anyone has witnessed it. The last time was the day I planted my mom about a week after arriving here, my knees buried in the soil while Rogue and Severen crouched on either side of me, each with a hand on my shoulder as I quietly wept.
Back then, I vowed to make Reverie’s life miserable. And now, I vow to fucking kill anyone who dares make her feel even a modicum of pain.
“Can I know about your dad and your grandmother? You’ve never spoken about them much.”
I blow out a breath while I scrounge up more painful memories. “My grandmother was pretty sickly most of my life. She battled ovarian cancer off and on since I can remember, so she spent most of my childhood at home with a nurse. She passed two years ago, and truthfully, I felt relieved. She suffered so much, and I know she was tired.” Another heavy exhale. “As for my dad, I don’t remember much. I couldn’t tell you what his voice sounded like or the color of his eyes. I do remember that he used to play catch with me all the time, though, and that my parents were both deeply in love. He died when I was five in a car accident. There was a bad snowstorm, and he was driving to work, even though my mom pleaded for him to call off. Hit ice, slid off a cliff, and crashed into some trees. Even if he survived the impact, branches impaled him through the chest and throat.”
Reverie winces, likely picturing the brutality of it. “Jesus, I’m sorry.”
I nod. “I’m only sorry I let my mother’s deathconsume me so much that I forgot to mourn him, too. His death hit me really hard, and I thought my mom was betraying him by going on that date.”
“Do you still think that?” she asks quietly.
“No,” I say. “I understand now that his death broke her, too. Going on a date with Lionel was just an attempt to move on. But even if he wasn’t a serial killer, I don’t think it would’ve worked.” My gaze brushes over her beautiful features as I say, “She was searching for the type of love she had with my dad, but you only find that once.”
Reverie meets my eyes, and I know she feels it, too. That heart-stopping, breathtaking, electric-tasting type of love neither of us will ever find in anyone else.
She clears her throat, her cheeks flushing red as she glances away.
“I don’t know why you’re staring at me like that. We’re still fighting,” she says, though her breathing has escalated, and she can’t stop flicking her eyes in my direction.
One corner of my lip twitches involuntarily.
