Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 188957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 945(@200wpm)___ 756(@250wpm)___ 630(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 188957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 945(@200wpm)___ 756(@250wpm)___ 630(@300wpm)
I pause then. And go still.
“Everything,” Mo continues, her eyes both defiant and slightly fearful. “I know you might see it as a betrayal. But she needed to know. That child has been pushed to the brink, Alaric. What she did today, she was so guilty and regretful. She never would’ve done it if—”
“I know,” I cut her off, not interested in listening to what I already know.
What she did this afternoon was wrong. It was devious and malicious and it was totally unlike her.
She’s played pranks in the past, broken rules and lied, but none of those things were done with an intention of permanent harm or damage. So yeah, she did this because she was pushed to the brink.
And as always, it happened because of me.
I look at Mo, study her distressed face as I continue, “It wasn’t a betrayal.” She goes to say something but I don’t let her. “And she’s not a child.”
Not anymore.
That’s the fucking problem, isn’t it? That she’s not.
She hasn’t been ever since I came back from Italy and I want to fucking break something. I want to fucking tear something apart. Because she does things to me that no one has ever been able to do. She fucks with my control that I’ve spent years to build.
And she shouldn’t be able to.
So how is it that she’s the bane of my goddamn life and the fire in my goddamn soul?
How is it that when I walk away from Mo, I’m bounding up the stairs, taking two at a time, charging to her room? How is it that I want to make sure that she’s really okay and really asleep?
And how the fuck is it that when I find her like that, only then am I able to breathe.
Only then am I able to calm this rage that’s been bubbling inside of me ever since Mo’s call.
I approach the bed with silent steps to where she’s curled up on her side under a blanket. Her midnight hair is scattered around the pillow and both her hands are tucked under it. There are tear tracks running down her pale, milky cheeks. Even her curly eyelashes are wet, and every now and then she jerks in her sleep, hiccupping.
She looks so young, so innocent.
Heartbreakingly innocent.
My fists clench as I feel that rage bubbling up again.
I should’ve broken more than his nose. I should’ve broken every bone in his body. I should’ve fucking killed him.
No, I should’ve found a way to wipe him out of existence so she never met him.
So he never breaks her heart like he did today.
But that’s not true, is it?
I did that. I broke her heart. Like so many things, I pushed her into his arms.
So it’s me.
I should’ve let her go.
Four years ago when she asked me to, I should’ve driven her back to New York and left her there myself.
I shouldn’t have trapped her like I did.
I shouldn’t have seen her as Charlie’s extension. Even in the beginning.
Because she’s not.
She never was.
She is too unique. She’s too original and talented and imaginative and fucking brave to be like anyone else.
Brave enough to fight, to push back, to stand up for herself every time I tried to put her down.
Not only that, she’s brave enough to bring things to life.
To create them. To will them into existence.
I can study creations. I can catalog them, analyze them, admire them and write papers about them. But she’s the one with a vision. She’s the one with style, with the flair and courage to build what people like me study.
Mo was right to tell her.
It’s not something I ever would’ve done myself. I don’t like to think about that part of my life. I don’t like to think about how I was before I became what I am today. But I’m glad Mo told her.
Not because it’s an excuse, but because she needed to know that it was never her fault.
It wasn’t her. It was me.
And now it’s my turn to do the right thing.
To be the guardian I was appointed to be four years ago.
With that thought in my head, I take one last look at her, her pale moon-like skin, her small body, her midnight hair, that plump pink mouth, devoid of her occasional dark purple lipstick.
As I turn around to leave, all I can hear is: I want you to give me my first kiss.
I can’t find him.
I can’t find him anywhere and I’ve looked and looked.
I’ve gone through every concrete hallway, every room of St. Mary’s, every inch of the campus grounds. I’ve also checked the mansion, all the rooms and all the floors. I even looked for him in the woods.
Where is he?
Why can’t I find him?
I know something has happened. Something bad. I know he’s in danger. His body is all broken and bent and bloody. And he’s lying somewhere all alone and I have to find him.