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He shuts his eyes, groaning. His jaw clenches, and his skin reddens. He rolls his neck and takes a breath before opening his eyes. “I suppose I am.”
The eyes he turns on me, they’re strained, red, and glistening. My heart sinks. I know I’ve hurt him, and I hate that I care. This man has intentions of doing irreversible damage to me. But I can’t help walking toward him, over the smooth, damp stones, hardened against the sole of my feet, barely protected by dainty slippers. Silently, I sit on the smaller rock next to him.
“He’s turned me into someone I don’t want to be,” he says. “But whenever I think about changing, his voice comes back to shame me, and I’m helpless against it.”
“You’re not helpless,” I interrupt.
“What?” he says.
“You’re not helpless. Your father was responsible for the way you moved through the world as a child. Sure, we can’t remove blame where blame is due. He’s the one responsible for the way you’ve viewed people your whole life, but you’re not a child anymore, Adam. You don’t have to rely on your father for permission on how to live your life. You’re the adult now, in charge of the little boy you once were, and you’re treating him the exact way your father treated you. You have a choice. It’s a hard choice but if you really want it, you can choose to be different. The only person responsible for who you are today, is you.” I look him in his eyes, and they widen at me but well, he might kill me anyway, so I might as well speak my mind.
“How can you say that? You don’t live inside my head? You don’t see him every night when you close your eyes and every day when you’re trying to focus on something else. You don’t know what I’ve been through. You don’t know how it hurts,” he says.
It dawns on me that this is the first time he’s ever expressed his feelings. Rather than alarming and abusing everyone with his rage, he’s talking about it. My heart stops beating for a moment, and we stare at each other in silence.
“You’re the first person I’ve ever said this to.” He breaks eye contact to look at the soothing view before him.
I swallow. “Why have you chosen to tell me? Is it because you know I’ll be taking it to my grave in a few days?”
His reddened eyes flashback at me. “Olivia.”
My cheeks tremble, and I look away. My blood is boiling, and it’s mostly in reaction to the way my heart warms for him. Here I am, giving him a speech about how he’s betraying the child he used to be, while I sit here betraying myself.
“It was a bad idea to come here,” I say, jumping up from the rock and heading back toward the horse.
He jumps down from his post, yelping and hopping toward me. Even in pain, he’s fast as lightning, because he catches up to me. “Olivia, please don’t write me off yet.”
I scoff, “Look who’s talking about writing someone off.”
“Please. Let me explain everything,” he pleads, holding my arms.
Hurt and annoyed, I still choose to sit. He opens up to me about his father, his life, and how he became the debt-collecting beast. He fills in the blanks that only pieces of the story heard from different people weren’t enough to fill. By the end of it, I’m left even more betrayed by my thoughts as I stroke his hair, seeing him as nothing more than a lost boy trapped in an adult body, unsure where to go and who to turn to. The only thing I want to do is wrap him in my arms, and I have the silliest thought of all resounding through me; maybe—he’s not such a big, bad beast after all.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Adam
Mylungsconstrict,andmy feet thud up the small flight of stairs, toward the west wing. My airways have narrowed to the point of forcing several coughs from me. Clutching my chest and slapping at it, I try to calm down, but I can’t. The mad thing, it’s happening again, and I need to be reminded why it must not.
Doors as tall as the giants of the past loom over me. They mock me, moaning as I push them open. No one else is allowed here but me, and I haven’t been here in a while because I’ve had everything under control. Now, here I am, frozen in the entry, looking around at the cobwebbed room. With as many steady breaths as I can manage, I move over the dark-red carpet. The decoration of this room fails to reflect on the things it holds.
Across the floor lies bits and pieces of broken glass. Next to those are paintings of Agatha. The bitch who betrayed me. My body shakes as I stomp toward them, picking up a frame and looking at the rip in her face. However, in the corner, covered in a dusty cream canvas, something else laughs at me. The thumping of my heart pushes each foot forward. This reflects the most painful proof of my stupidity.
I’d sent someone to retrieve all these things from the old castle, many years ago. Whenever I’d get close to a woman, and my heart would come close to yielding to trickery, I knew that these would slap me right where I needed it to. Gulping, I remove the canvas in one rush. Dust explodes like puffs of smoke, making it even harder to catch my breath. I wheeze, rushing to the window to pull it open and stick my head out of it.
The fresh air and sunlight steady me for a moment, but it illuminates the small, wooden cot beside me, and my breath is swept away again as I turn to look at it. There it is. The thing that reveals my weakness and the way I let myself be led away by foolish fantasy because of her, a lying cheat. My legs wobble on my way over to the pale soft yellow linen that rests on top of bedding as short as the length of my arm. As the fabric slips between my fingers, floods of tears wash my eyes.
Since Agatha and I were children, we spoke of having our own. The day we got this handmade cot delivered is still fresh in my mind. The image burns through me. Her smile, as we murmured baby names to each other, my ear on her flat stomach, speaking to our imaginary child. The passionate kiss we shared, wishing it were our wedding day already, so we could get started on conceiving, fighting the urge to yield to temptation.
I’m compounded by a wave of emotions. They slam into me with the force of a storm. My blood bubbles and rises, my stomach sinks and gnaws at me, and my soul fights with my body, trying to make an escape. But there’s no way to run away from this. It is what has happened and what threatens to occur again.
I run my hand along the grit of the natural wood, the arch that would rest over the baby’s head. All the while, my thoughts ruthlessly attack me.Can you imagine if you’d never caught Agatha with Alfred? She would’ve conceived, and you might have never known whether the child was yours. Or it might have been obvious as soon as the child left the womb; the midwife would have seen it. The doctor… What would you have done then?
I kick the curved legs of the cradle, relying on the pain rushing through my toes, to drown out my thoughts. But they don’t stop.Look at you. Now, it’s happening again. Isn’t it? You can’t deny the truth. You’ve fallen for another. And she’ll betray you, just like Agatha. One day, you won’t be enough. She’ll sleep with a servant. She’ll even sleep with Lucian, the man you trust the most out of the rest. You saw how she smiled at him from the carriage. You’re a fool, Adam Molotov. You never learn.
Argh! Grabbing onto the side of the cot, I swing it into the wall. It’s such excellent craftsmanship that only a few splinters shoot from it. Yelling at its stubbornness, I kick into it, but the solid wood won’t yield. Blasted, dratted, foolish cot! There’s a small closet with a natural finish in the corner, and I kick that too. The doors swing open. Glass feeding bottles and ceramic feeding spoons crash to the ground. My heart delights at the destruction. On the shelves, there are too many baby-sized dressing gowns. I swipe my hand across them, knocking them to the floor before ripping them apart. As they rip, however, so does my soul. It’s like I’m destroying something for the child I wish I had.
Hiccupping, a sob hammers at my chest. I promised myself that I’d never fall for another woman again. What’s wrong with…
