He narrows his eyes, and his form flickers. “Don’t fuck with me, Mari. Is that even your actual name? Or did you lie about that, too?”
My nostrils flare and rage slowly builds within me. I try to keep my temper under control, to explain things logically. He’s not making it easy. I hate when someone accuses me of shit I didn’t do. Everyone in my life seems to blame me for things outside my control. I’m sick and tired of being everyone else’s scapegoat.
“For your information, Mari is a nickname. Is Dimitriyouractual name?” I plant my fists on my hips, no longer caring how dripping wet I am.
A sardonic grin takes over his face. “No, as a matter of fact, it’s not.”
I inhale sharply, trying to hide the hurt. I understand why he’s upset, but I didn’t think he’d lie to me. And then throw it in my face after…everything? I definitely didn’t see that coming.
This right here is why I keep to myself. It hurts too much to let people in. They never live up to the expectations I build for them in my mind. I bite the inside of my cheek, focusing on the physical one rather than the emotional one.
“Well, fine then. I didn’t lie to you, though I doubt that matters much to you. And no, I didn’t curse you. Choose to believe it or not, I don’t really care.” I grab another towel and wrap it around my cold body. “You can go now.”
His face transforms, going through a range of emotions before settling on contemplation. I don’t really care. He can figure his shit out somewhere else. I have more important things to do. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself. It’s easier than feeling the pain. Maybe I am the liar he claims me to be.
“It’s Dimitrius,” he mumbles, running a hand through his hair.
“Good for you. Was there something else you needed? Or are you keeping me hostage?”
He steps to the side and allows me to pass. His fingers brush my elbow, yet I breeze by without acknowledging him. His inability to talk things through calmly isn’t my problem. It’s not my flaw to fix. The dark side of me, the one I keep locked away in the corner of my mind, hopes he suffers—that the guilt will eat away at him, eroding his confidence and feeling the sting of loss every time he remembers me. There’s a reason I keep that side hidden from even myself.
“Mari, I didn’t?—”
“It’s Marigold, by the way. Not that you deserve to know. Yes, my parents named me after a flower. Yes, it means not so great things. No, you can’t call me it. Satisfied?”
He shakes his head, regret and shame swimming in his eyes.
Mercy doesn’t cost you anything.
I mentally flip Lark off, then stop. Her advice is usually on par, even when it’s in my head. I want to argue with her, but he’s still looking at me. Fighting with a voice inside my head isn’t exactly typical for witches.
“Fine,” I snap, though whether to him or the voice, I’m not entirely sure. Maybe both.
“None of this is fine,” he sighs.
“No, I mean, fine, give me your proof.” As much as mercy wouldn’t cost me anything, it doesn’t erase my annoyance. Or the hurt.
He swallows hard and thunder rumbles overhead. If he makes it rain in this house again, I might just lose it.
“The room,” he mutters. “The one behind the kitchen.”
My spine snaps straight. “What about it?”
“The witchy demon things. You told me you didn’t know anything about curses. You said you’d never been anywhere.” His eyes lift to meet mine, but the rage is gone, replaced with something like guilt. “Why did you lie?”
I glance at the ceiling, and those damn stars stare back at me—mocking me. “This isn’t my house. I’ve lived here for the past several months, but I don’t…this isn’t my place. I lived in the city like three hours from here in a tiny-ass apartment with no elevator. This is my sister’s house. She’s the one who set that whole room up. I don’t understand half the things in it—including the summoning circle.”
His mouth parts and realization washes over him. I want to call him an asshole, tell him he should have asked questions, then waited for the answers instead of making accusations. Except the fight’s drained out of me. All that’s left is the sting of his words and the pain of his own omissions.
“That’s…Mari, that’s not a summoning circle.”
“Of course it is. I saw one just like it in my parent’s basement. And my other aunt’s house before she vanished or died or whatever. Sure, part of it’s washed away, but I figured that was normal and Lark just?—”
He holds up his hand and I fall silent, realizing I’m rambling. “Lark?”
“My sister…”
“So, you’re named after a flower and she’s named after a bird?” He raises an eyebrow and looks at me expectantly, as if this is the most important question.
