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“Aka—the truth,” I interject.
“The only truth to a story is that there is none. Truth only exists in the eyes of the beholder—the rest is merely a perception of events.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it.” I strike the match against the strip, and the flame flickers between us.
“Don’t lie to me, Flower. I can see it in your eyes. You’re hiding something.”
I hate that I care what he thinks of me. If he wants to paint me as the villain in his story, I should let him. Amongst other things, a little humility could do Van some good.
“You’re wrong.”
My eyes never leave the flickering flame.
“Is this what it feels like,” I ask solemnly, “to be behind one of your flames? Where fear becomes resignation?”
“That depends.” His words are shrouded by his low tone that’s made the strongest of men plead.
“Depends on what?”
As much as I’ve grown comfortable around this man, he still can incite fear with two words.
“Only if you’re resigned.”
I don’t see him move until his fingers break my gaze on the flames.
“I have a video of you walking into the police station that night…” His fingers dance over the flame, soaking up the blistering heat as if they are starved for its pain. “Are you ready to tell me why you chose that day, of all days, to betray me?”
“I didn’t betray you.”
He sneers and plucks the match from my grasp. “You sat there, wearing a deputy’s jacket, while they descended from their cars and took me to the ground.” He chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “You waited until I was stripped and behind bars before you left the station… arm in arm with the detective.”
Reaching up, I tangle my hand with his, the heat a brutal reminder that Van Gogh and I only burn brighter together. His silly beliefs be damned. “I had a flat tire and no spare. He stopped to help.”
I expect him to swat my hand away, but he doesn’t. He grips my palm against his, the calloused skin underneath a rough reminder of the damage they’ve done. Except, it doesn’t scare me; it calms me, just like his flame and promise of destruction in the name of justice. It’s my own personal lullaby.
“This accusation has grown tiresome, husband,” I coo, spinning the wedding band around his finger. “The brick that’s built my prison is more entertaining.”
An intrigued hum sounds in the back of his throat. “Careful, Flower, the brick that lines the federal penitentiary also loves to listen to the lies of the guilty.”
Our hands dance over the flame right before Van brings the heat to my lips. His eyes find mine, watching me intently with a smile that only means one thing—mischief.
“Put it out.”
He’s got to be kidding.
“And if I don’t?” I offer, cocking my head to the side, studying his hazy gaze. “If I let it burn my prison to the ground, preferably with you in it?”
His laugh vibrates his chest. “Let’s not play with fire, Flower. It has a way of scarring those who misuse it.”
So I’ve been told. But if there’s one thing Van Gogh loves, it’s my scars—especially the ones of his doing.
“Scared?” Heat burns my bottom lip, searing the skin, but I keep my hands tangled in the sheets. If anything, my suffering would only humor him, and that’s something I can’t have.
My lips part on instinct, letting the cool air brush past the pain. It helps for a moment, but Van doesn’t wait long before bringing it closer, the pain reaching my tongue.
The burn feels intimate in our twisted way—painful but intimate. It was a test of sorts—one I’ve failed in the past.
But before I can close my lips around the blaze, Van invades my space and settles his tongue over mine, soothing the ache. The flame diminishes on our tongues, its bright light dying with its maker.
