"Even after everything I did," I said it idly, almost casually, but that was deceptive if you knew how to read me. Dante knew. "You still never told me. Didn't some part of you want to stop protecting me, even from myself, after a while?
He didn't even bother trying for casual. His voice was low, intense, emotional enough that it ached and I with it. "No. No part of me has ever wanted to stop protecting you. Even from yourself. I only wish I'd done a better job. I wish I could have protected you from everything."
That hurt as much as it healed, and I found myself bracing against the table, trying to keep my balance as I reeled. I was too conflicted about this. So much so, I felt at war with myself. There was anger there, oh yes, the things he'd kept from me were unacceptable and detrimental, but also there was regret, so much of it. It nearly took me to my knees.
But overriding all of that, the strongest urge was a pervasive softening, a tenderness for my lover who had fought, at all costs, for my freedom.
Tenderness won for the moment, but only with brute force. It was simple: It was the strongest, so it won.
But I had no doubts that the others would be back to fight another day.
Dante noticed my slip, and he lifted me onto the table, perching me there, cupping my face, and tilting it back to study me carefully.
Silently and solemnly, I studied him back. He was a complicated man.
Manipulative. Ruthless. Savage.
In his eyes was an enigmatic power over me that was exclusive to him.
The king of all of my regrets. The architect of every last drop of joy I'd ever tasted.
My tormentor. My savior.
I looked into his eyes and saw the infinite universe, because everything I needed was in them. It all ended and began right here, with us. It always had.
Now if there was only some way we got to keep it.
I wondered with no small amount of trepidation whether Adelaide would ruin us this time, or if we'd do it to ourselves.
Dante, clearly, had other things on his mind.
He moved between my thighs, his tireless cock hard and ready again.
He fucked me on the edge of the table, my body jarring sensually, jolting and bouncing tantalizingly with each thrust, his hands anchored on my hips to keep me on the edge, poised at the perfect angle, eyes on mine to the very last.
He only looked away for one brief moment when he came, when his spine bowed backwards, neck arching as he lunged to the end of me and held himself there.
Watching him lose it brought me over, both hands clinging to his nape, eyes devouring him like he might disappear.
Afterwards he carried me to bed, which was fitting. I let him. I was limp, too weak to stand, let alone walk, and it was all his fault.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
"If you're losing your soul and you know it, then you've still got a soul left to lose."
~Charles Bukowski
PAST
DANTE
The moment I entered my apartment I knew something was wrong. I didn't see anything at first glance, nothing was messed up or askew. It was more of a feeling in the air. A presence where there should have been only emptiness.
But I didn't see anyone. The entryway was empty, as well as the living room. The small dining room, as well.
But it was there that I saw something different.
On the table, splayed out in a fan, was a thick stack of eight by ten pictures.
Something sharp and unpleasant twisted in my gut.
Before I ever saw what they contained, I felt sick enough to wretch.
I knew. Somehow, I just knew that I was looking at my ruin.
I approached the table with no small amount of trepidation.
I didn't touch the pictures. Much like finding the scene of a crime, I didn't dare disturb it or leave behind any sort of mark.
But I could see clearly enough just what they were. Photos of the trailer Scarlett had grown up in. The outside of it. The inside of it. Pictures that very clearly told the story of the darkest day of my life.
Pictures that painted my guilt, and worse, hers, in stark, vivid red strokes.
My mind raced as I tried to figure out how someone had taken them; how I was only just now seeing that we had clearly been found out.
Someone had been watching. Someone had seen it all. The ramifications added a new horror to it all.
Someone had known what was happening to her and hadn't stopped it. Instead they had built a case that I could tell at a glance could not and would not be disputed.
They hadn't gotten shots of anything going on inside of the trailer until after I had carried her out, but that was about all they'd missed.
There was a barrage of photos of me carrying her limp body out that eventually led to pictures of the body still in Scarlett's old bed.
I didn't realized I'd taken a seat, head clutched in my hands, still staring at the horrors in front of me, until Adelaide entered the room.
I looked up, still too shocked to react.
It was offensive how put together she looked, how polished she'd made sure to be for the destruction of her only child. The crazy bitch was even wearing her favorite pearls.
Her eyes raked over me with spectacular disdain. "Checkmate," she said with relish.