Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
The guilt from a moment ago amasses until it makes it hard to breathe. "Then why didn't you kill me?"
"You know why."
"Because you fell in love with me." My voice is so quiet I'm surprised he hears it. "You still got your revenge."
"No, I didn't. I punished him, instead."
"What's the difference?"
"Depends on who you ask."
"I'm asking you."
"He didn't suffer," Naz says. "Not as much as I did."
I want to tell him I don't think he would have suffered either way, but I don't think it's worth the breath. Killing us wouldn't have affected John as much as I think Naz believes. Not all men hold the ones they love so closely. If my father could so easily walk away, could live his life surrounded by white picket fences in suburbia, knowing his family was struggling to live, removing the burden of us from his world would've just been a blessing.
Naz knows that deep down inside. He's told me himself—only a coward leaves his family. Nobody mattered more to John than himself.
Maybe that's what stopped Naz, the truth that my father didn't really care about me. Maybe it wasn't love that saved me. Maybe it was the lack of it.
I don't know.
"I hate you," I whisper. I feel it in my gut, and I can't deny it. I can't ignore it. I'm so angry, so hurt, so consumed that the hate feels like lava, settling in the pit of my stomach. My world was a sunny sky before him, a pretty picture my mother drew for me, and he painted it all black with the truth, splattering it with red from the bloodshed.
I hate it.
I hate him.
"I know," he says quietly. "You said you wouldn't… you said you meant it… but I know you do."
"But I love you, too… I don't know how I still can. I hate you, but I still love you somehow. It's just… how can I feel both ways?"
"Easily," he says. "The opposite of love isn't hate, Karissa. It's indifference. You're a passionate person, and love and hate… it's not a far stretch from one to the other. They both take passion, someone getting under your skin and consuming you. And I ate you alive, sweetheart. You never had a chance."
A chill flows down my spine as he stands up. I watch him warily when he turns my way, seeing the darkness lurking in his eyes. "What am I supposed to do now?"
He steps toward me, reaching into his pocket and pulling something out. I watch incredulously as he drops it on my lap, stepping right over me like it's nothing. I glance down, blinking with surprise when I see that it's my engagement ring.
"You set a date for the wedding," he says. "That's what you do."
Vitale.
He traces the name again and again, the rough texture of his hands skimming along my back. It's as if he's branding me with his touch, claiming me as his with the signature of his fingertips, an ironclad contract forged with blood, sweat, and tears.
My tears, usually.
It was almost my blood, too.
According to Greek Mythology, people were originally created with four arms, four legs, and a head with two faces. Four hands to touch with. Two mouths to speak. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate beings, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves.
I learned that from Plato's Symposium during my time in Santino's class.
It's a beautiful concept: your soul mate, a part of you, existing in the world inside of another body. People spend their entire lives searching for the one, the one who can complete them, but I never had to look. Mine started chasing me before I was even born.
I once thought the reality couldn't be as fascinating as the fantasy, but I was wrong. So very wrong. It might be the case for other people, but they don't know Ignazio Vitale. They haven't met him. They haven't seen what I see in his eyes.
He's my other half.
Maybe the stories got it wrong, I think.
Maybe Cinderella didn't live happily ever after.
Maybe, come midnight, she wanted to run away.
Maybe her prince wouldn't let her.
Mine didn't.
Vitale.
No sooner I figure out what he's writing along my back, his hand leaves my flesh, the bed shifting as he rolls over, finally turning away from me. I breathe a deep sigh of relief, but it doesn't last long.
The moment he pulls away, I start to miss his touch.
For as much as I hate him, I also love him.
I love him.
I love him.
And I fucking hate that, too.
He's a monster, wrapped up in a pretty package.
But I find myself wondering at times like this, when I feel the distance between us, if maybe in his eyes, the real monster is me.