He didn’thaveto spell it out so neatly, did he? I mutter, “I’m sure having both my parents die and no one who wanted to keep me afterward took a toll on my psyche. Thanks for identifying that, Dr. Phil.”
“Free of charge, you’re welcome.”
“How would I ever have learned that my childhood trauma played a role in forming my adult issues without your help?” I drone.
“You would not have,” he says firmly. “You’re so lucky I’m here to provide clarity.”
Pushing myself up, I meet his eyes and ignore how very, very close together our faces are—because it’s good for me and mydesensitization therapy, or something. “What’s your damage?” I ask.
“Mine?”
“Yeah, you’re messed up and insane, too. What happened to you? Are your sweet parents a front? Were you actually raised by Loki?”
He smiles. “Was I raised by one of the more beloved villains in our society? You flatter me.”
“Spill.”
“There’s nothing to spill. I had a very loving home and comfortable childhood. The most depressing thing in my history is that my brother has been, and still is, my best friend.”
“Poor thing,” I coo. “Please tell me there’s a non-profit organization dedicated to the relief and awareness of minorities like you.”
He chuckles, carefully setting his bare hand to my cheek.
His thumb swipes, and I find myself forcing my mind to focus on the sensation and the heat. There’s no warmth like this when gloves stand between. I crave it. I crave an idea of closeness. With someone. Anyone, really. But he’s the person whose treachery I’ve survived for two long years now.
He’s the only one who’s stayed with me amid the madness for this long.
Eyelids lowering, he stares at my lips. “It’s not really traumatic, and I know it’s my own fault. I just have a horrible personality and fail to make friends. People are fascinating to me, but in all the wrong ways. Maybe it’s a god complex. Maybe it’s a side effect of growing up in a position of wealth and power. Maybe I just suck.”
“Probably that last one,” I offer, kindly.
His smile softens. “I won’t argue. To me, you’re an anomaly, Azalea. Everything about you is perfect. Lovable. Precious. I like how deeply you feel things when you let yourself feel them. But I also like the way you’re practically a doll when you’re bottled up. I find myself entranced by your precision and your analysis. You’re so diligent at work and at home. Before I fell in love with you, I couldn’t shake the sick desire to stain you. I think that realization is when I pressed that ketchup heart into your clothes. I’d have preferred ink, but I worked with what I had available when the compulsion hit me. I felt bad about it afterward…but I felt worse when—weeks later—you wore the same dress, and I saw that the stain had come out.”
I press my lips together. “Actually…”
His attention lifts, from my mouth to my eyes.
“I don’t know if it would have come out or not. I threw it away the minute I got home and ordered an exact replacement.”
He exhales a laugh. “Only you.”
Yes, only me. On account of mental illness.
I don’t know why, but I smile. “You’re really not a good person at all, crow.”
“I’m sorry, dove. Would you like me to try to bebetterfor you? I can make an effort to lock up my more unsavory parts. I can figure out how to control and constrain myself. Because I will. I’m sure I’ll mess up at least a thousand times before I get the hang of it, but I’m also sure I’m nothing if not determined.”
“I’d suggest a shock collar…” I murmur.
“But I’d probably like it,” he murmurs back, tenderly.
I hum. “It could be fun watching you struggle against your twisted instincts and desires. I’m sure I can figure out something that would work as a punishment for failing to live up to your higher identity.”
His thumb settles against my chin. “If you make it a game about suffering, I’m afraid I’ll never get any better.”
“I have a question.” I ignore his finger on my chin and hold his warm gray eyes. “Am I just a toy to you? Some interesting character to conquer in a game? Something to amuse yourself with? Someone to just keep around until it’s notfunanymore?”
“Once, you were. Now…” He carefully brings his thumb closer and closer to my bottom lip. When the tip of his nail grazes, I flinch, hardening myself, and he grows drunk on the sight of me. “Now,” he breathes, “you’re my wife. I love you. I love you so much it hurts to be near you yet never close enough. I love you so much that you’re all I can see when I close my eyes. I love you to the brink of madness. If you’re a toy, you’re the only one I want to play with. If you’re a character in a game, we’rethe only true ending. You’re the only one I want to be with even when there’s nothing amusing happening at all. When we went to Fantasy Haven and you didn’t say a word to me the entire car ride, I couldn’t shake how much fun I was having regardless. I fixated on the songs you chose. On the way you moved. On what caught your attention outside. Just watching your eyes take in the world could consume me for hours. If this isn’t love, it’s an infatuation that has only gotten worse with time. I never want being around you to end.”
