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“Not after this,” I tell him. “Not after you’ve lied to me all this time. No, I don’t.”
His face splits in a huge grin, but his lips are trembling. “Smart girl,” he says (yells). “You shouldn’t. Now come on, we need to go, or we’ll drown a second time in the same day.” I try to walk, and I stumble, my knees buckling under me. He catches me at the last minute. “I’m going to pick you up and carry you, ok?” he says.
No, it’s not ok. Nothing is ok. But my lips and body are numb, and so is my heart, so I let him pick me up and carry me like a rag doll, while all the time I’m trying to pretend that the water pouring down my face is only rainwater and not tears.
…
Marco quickly runs the few steps to where his bike is standing, drenched in raindrops and hail, and flings me onto the seat. He gets up in front of me and the Ducati roars to life, revving up, its wheels already spinning on the wet road.
“Hold tight,” he says, like he did the first time, but I can’t. My hands are shaking, slipping from around his jacket, the rain is getting in my nose, drowning me. “Hey hey hey,” I hear him say, and then the bike has skidded to a halt, and he’s jumping off, his hands already around me.
He pushes me to the front of the seat and sits behind me, his arms and legs firmly wrapped around me as he drives. He’s talking on his phone at the same time, or onaphone, screaming for backup.
He holds me steady against his rock-hard chest as we fly through the storm, but he’s focused on the road the whole time, his fingers steady and sure on the handlebars as he drives. We ride for about half an hour.
And then, suddenly, we’re stopping and he grabs me in his arms once again. He walks straight into the woods, without looking back, and then he’s running so fast that my head is jostled against his neck. I look up: the woods are still dark, still wet, still a tangle of nightmares.
But Marco keeps running straight through the trees, even though there is no path, as if he knows where he’s going. He doesn’t even glance back at the Ducati once; I don’t think he even bothered to turn off the ignition in his haste.
He just carries me through the darkness, his figure slicing through the night like a knife.
/we the rotten royals/
{the website you are looking for no longer exists}
four
“You’re safe,” a voice is saying. “You’re safe. Olivia, what can I do?”
I can’t stop shaking… I can’t breathe. Maybe that’s why he’s asking. I don’t have enough air in my lungs to reply.
“Breathe, Your Royal Highness,” Marco says, his hand warm on my chest, pressing down towards my lungs. “Breathe.”
Don’t you ‘royal highness’ me now, I try to snap at him, but it comes out like a wheeze. Hearing my own voice like that makes me even more scared. I don’t think I’ve ever been more powerless in my life—and I’ve spent my whole life being powerless.
“You’re ok,” Marco is saying, although it’s clear I’m not. He’s trying to convince himself. “Come on, Olivia, take a breath.”
He’s lying again. I’m not ok. And I’m not breathing. Panic settles in my stomach as I try to inhale, but my lungs can’t get any air in them. I’m choking on nothing, drowning on dry land. Everything turns black and stays black.
“Hey. Hey!”
He’s shaking me, but there’s nothing I can do. My vision is gone. I’m going to die here, alone, in the rain, with this stranger, drowned in lies. I’m going to—
“Olivia! Hey…”
His voice is beginning to sound scared, but it’s also fading behind the ringing in my ears.
And then, something happens. I don’t die—well, I almost do.
But right before I do, Marco leans down and presses his mouth to mine. He sort of gives me his breath, but then he’s kissing me, and somehow, even though I can’t really breathe, I’m kissing him back, and then his hands are cupping my head and he’s leaning down low to reach my mouth, his knees bending on either side of my legs, his breath shuddering against my lips.
He softly sinks to his knees, and I sink with him.
I can totally breathe now, but who needs breathing? Kissing him is so much better. I gasp against his lips, and I feel his whole body turn to jelly. His hands fall to my waist, and now he is the one shaking and breathing shakily, and not breathing at all, as he holds on to me as if I’m the one thing anchoring him to the world.
“Are you ok?” I ask him, my mouth full with his delicious lips.
“No,” he murmurs. He takes my lip lightly between his teeth and teases it until I think I will explode. His voice is a low rumble, making heat rise up in my stomach, in my cheeks, in my whole body. I didn’t know voices could do that. His voice. “I’m not ok. I’m kissing you. I’m dying.”
