That’s when I see her, and I stop cold.
Adora’s on her knees in front of the closet, hunched over something I haven’t looked at in thirteen fucking years.
The violin. The case I shoved into the dark. The thing I buried, sealed away like a coffin.
My lungs seize. My heart tries to claw out of my chest.
What the fuck is she doing?
I’m halfway to yanking her away from the case when she turns her face to me. Tears. Too many of them, pouring down her cheeks like a river that won’t stop. And those beautiful eyes of hers are wide, raw, like she’s about to bleed out on the floor.
“It was dusty,” she whispers, voice hoarse.
My jaw locks.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I snap, sharper than I mean to.
Her expression fractures. A world of misery passes through her eyes, and I want to look away. I want to run. Disappear somewhere she can't follow.
“Why was the case dusty? Hidden?” Her voice is so soft, I almost miss it. “It’s because of me, isn’t it?”
I clench my fists. Hard. My eyes drop to the floor. Of course it’s because of her. Of course!
She looks back down at the violin, watching it like it’s a dead body. Her hand lifts halfway toward it, then freezes, like she’s afraid she’ll break it just by touching it.
“I’m so sorry. I took it away, didn’t I?” she whispers. A sob slips free. “You’d never let it collect dust if you were still playing. I thought… I thought maybe you just didn’t want to play for me. That you were still doing it at the clubhouse.”
She sounds shattered, and it fucking breaks me.
“It brought back too many memories,” I say, voice flat. Barely audible.
She nods slowly, like she already knew.
“Your music… it used to be the only thing — besides you — that could bring any light into my head.” Her voice is soft, but it cuts me open with terrifying ease.
Her sorrow coils around me and grips me so tight, I feel it crushing my bones. Because I know exactly what my music meant to her. I know the war she’s fought inside her own mind for her entire life.
“I took everything from you,” she says, her tone terrifyingly calm. “You really should just kill me.” She says it like it’s the most rational conclusion in the world. As if we didn’t just spend almost three months wrapped around each other like horny teenagers.
No.
No!
Too soon. Too fucking soon.
I drop beside her, brush a strand of hair behind her ear. My hand’s shaking.
“Adora… I’m not going to kill you,” I say, and my voice fucking cracks. “If I could, I would’ve done it in the dungeon. But I can’t.I can’t.”
It’s the truth. I can’t kill her. Not now.
She turns those tear-soaked eyes on me.
“I could do it for you.” It’s a whisper, fragile and broken. “You’d be free of me. Of my presence. My disease. That’s what you called it, didn’t you?”
Her tears keep falling in endless rivers. Panic slams into me, hard and fast.
I need to make the shadows leave her mind. Now! Fuck!
