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A desperate laugh slips past her lips. “Can you make me forget?”
Without hesitation, I say, “Yes.”
She studies my eyes, searching me for the truth.
“I can make us both forget,” I say, banishing the doubt from my thoughts. “But you have to trust me.”
I undo the buttons along the placket of my black shirt, then wrench my arms from the sleeves and toss the balled garment into the fire. Gaze transfixed, she sweeps the sculpted reliefs of my chest, examining the dark ink and markings.
Her touch damn near sends me to my knees. I’m so awestruck by her, so desperate to keep her, I’m torn over whether I should steal her and lock her away in my mountain home.
“I know who you are,” she says, a little shiver clinging to her shoulders. “I’ve read your papers.”
Her eyes latch on to mine, and I admit, my ego soars. The desire to make her know exactly who I am is a depraved demon clawing from the inside.
“Do it,” she says, her demand every bit a plea.
A lifetime of study into the hidden wisdoms of the world has either given me an advantage, or made me delusional. Either way, it’s prepared me for this moment in time. If sanity means returning to my uninspired life before her, then I’ll readily descend right into the maddening abyss.
I retrieve my ritual blade and bring it between us. There’s no fear detected in her features, though there absolutely should be.
Do I believe this will work? For her, to keep her from self-destructing, I have no other choice. And if it fails, if her mind shatters…
Clasping her neck, I thread my fingers into her hair and tilt her face up to me. “Even in the darkest chasm, the deepest crags of hell, I will find you. I won’t leave you in the dark.”
With a reverent touch, she places her hand over the sigil scored into my chest. “But I don’t believe in any of this.”
“I’ll believe for the both of us.” A practitioner of the dark arts, my conviction in chaos magick is more than a belief system, it’s coded in my DNA.
I was born to raise fucking hell.
She lowers her hand. “I trust you.”
And I’m drowning in her.
While my selfish nature demands to keep her for myself, this beautiful, exquisite woman and her heartsickness that breathes life into my decaying soul, I can’t bear to feel her suffer.
So I do the humane thing and make her forget.
Not because I’m virtuous. The simple truth is I can’t deny her, because I can’t deny myself. Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, marrow of my bone.
I trap the lock of white framing her face, caressing the damp strands. “You have my word,” I swear to her.
Not a promise.
A threat.
Nothing and no one will come between us.
She stands before the fire, her back to the crackling flames. A deity amid the light, a beautiful force destined to annihilate me.
With pained regret, I tug the sweatshirt down her shoulder and expose her soft skin.
I kiss her shoulder worshipfully, my mouth lingering, breathing her into my lungs to memorize the fiery ache. Then, as I pull away, I puncture my finger with the blade. As I trace the sigil along the delicate joint of her neck and shoulder, the chorus of the hymn stirs my soul.
In the midst of life we are in death.
Could any philosopher deny the soul has a mate when staring into their twin flame?
