We were at a dangerous place then, he and I, where though I'd forgotten nothing—not a one of his sins and certainly not one of mine—they weren't crushing my mood into blackness as they usually did, as it was their job to do when he was this deep into my head.
"We're becoming one of those couples that we would make fun of," I told him the second day. We were in the backyard, making pet videos of all of the adorable interactions between Amos and Diablo.
"Joke's on you," Dante said with a soft smile. "We always were."
The time with Dante was good for me in a lot of fundamental ways. That was a fact. But always, running under our time together, over it, through it, was a bittersweet current of fear. This was not permanent. This was stolen time.
I'd steal it again, take and take, everything I could, because it was right. We were right together. He'd said it best—apart we were not ourselves. We only ever made sense together.
But no length of stolen time, no amount of righteousness, could change the past or the future.
"What's the plan here?" I asked him on the third day. It had started as a small weight, but as these things went, it became bigger the longer I didn't address it. "Are we just going to hide from Adelaide forever?"
We were in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner. He turned to look at me head on as he replied, "For now, yes. For however long is necessary. I'm working with Bastian on trying to get some dirt on her, some leverage for counter-blackmail—"
I smirked at the counter-blackmail. It was so Durant it hurt, the manipulative bastards.
"But until we have something that will ruin her beyond a shadow of a doubt, she's always going to have the upper hand. That is a fact."
It all felt so hopeless all of a sudden that I couldn't keep it in. "You know we're being foolish. Nothing has changed, not really. You and I are still hopeless. I should just stay away from you. If I were smart, I would."
That set him off, nostrils flaring, eyes flashing. He stepped right into my personal space, so I had to look up to meet his eyes. I'd done it now. "Oh yes. Your incredible restraint. Don't remind me. You think I need to be reminded? That restraint breathes down my neck every minute of every day. You could stay the hell away from me indefinitely; I'm well aware. But what if I can't let you? What if I'm sick to death of trying?"
My heart was pounding, eyes devouring his passionate expression. Sometimes I felt I could feed on his rage alone. It was sick and twisted and irresistible. "Sooner or later, we all have to pay for our sins," I said softly.
He shook his head, "No. That's not where this is heading. No. I won't allow it."
He said it like he meant it, with absolute inflexibility. I tried to find comfort in that.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
"What matters most is how well you walk through the fire."
~Charles Bukowski
PAST
SCARLETT
Harris didn't take me to the station.
He took me back to my grandma's trailer, which he knew would be vacant.
He dragged me kicking and screaming inside.
It was like a switch in my brain that I couldn't turn off. I'd fight him until he decided I was more trouble than I was worth.
I'd fight him until he killed me.
I scratched him until he bled. On the arms, on his face. I went for his eyes and almost got one.
I bit him on the neck and wouldn't let go. I tasted blood and wondered if I was close to his jugular. I ripped chunks of his flesh out with my teeth, but it still didn't slow him.
Finally he clocked me on the back of the head, and the world went black.
I came to tied spread eagle on my bed. I was naked.
The first thing I saw was my bedside clock.
11:23.
It's only 11:23, I thought. Not even an entire period has passed since he took me from school. It seemed impossible that it was still so early.
I kept my eyes glued to that clock for four solid hours. The ropes were so tight that I couldn't shift even an inch to fight him.
I've never been good at escaping into my own mind, at finding any sort of distance from the things that torment me. But I tried. I tried to reach for some kind of solace somewhere in my being.
And found none.
For the first bit, I held onto a tiny grain of hope—maybe it wouldn't go that far.
Maybe he wouldn't take it that next step. Or the next. Or the next.
And, most wretched and unfair of all—perhaps Dante will come bursting through the door at any moment—somehow he'll sense what's happening to me—that his angel is being damaged beyond all repair.
Somehow he'll rescue me.
By the first half hour, my eyes still glued to that clock, I gave up all hope of that.
I'm not sure why the words came to my brain then, but they did. Gram had once told me that God answers all prayers.
I worshipped Gram, but I had not agreed. In fact, I was skeptical of God in general.
But just then, I was desperate enough to try. I prayed. With an anguished heart, I prayed.