Page 66 of Sin of Love
Gideon says quickly, “I knocked a few times.”
“It’s fine. What?”
God, I hate how I speak to him. Ashamed, I turn my head away and stare at a pastoral print on the wall.
“I’m going into the village in the morning.” Wary, sad voice. “Anything you need?”
“I need Nate.”
Not you.
The unspoken words hang in the air, a double-edged spear piercing both of us. It occurs to me I’m trying to make him angry. Make him leave. Because if he leaves, I’ll know that my greatest fear is true—everyone I love abandons me. No one will love me for who I am at my darkest. And once that’s confirmed, I can fade away like I was always meant to, just crawl into the ground and sleep forever.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter, rubbing my forehead. “Shut up.”
“What?”
My heart trips. You were talking to yourself. Like a crazy person.
“Not you,” I blurt. “My… thoughts.”
“You were telling your thoughts to shut up?”
The thread of humor in his voice brings my head up. My spine prickles with annoyance. “Yes. So what?”
Gideon scratches his beard. “I’m sure it’s hard being cooped up all day and night, alone with your thoughts. Do you, uh, want my phone? Maybe you can call—”
“No,” I interject.
“You could watch cat videos on YouTube,” he deadpans. “Check your Facebook. Take some pictures of the Irish countryside.”
“And post them on Instagram so the Lazcano family can know my whereabouts? Is that what you want?”
His eyes narrow, ire flashing in their honeyed depths. “Why not? They can finish what they started. Isn’t that what you want?”
Rusty laughter scrapes my throat. Rage sears through me. “Fuck you. I didn’t ask you to save me. In fact, I explicitly told you not to.”
His knuckles whiten where they grip the doorframe. “I get it. You lived through hell and wanted it to end. Part of you still feels that way, right? Well, you don’t get to die, so too fucking bad. You have to live.”
“Wow. Who are you, the master of the goddamn universe?”
For a moment, my wild god appears. Fearsome and thunderous. Then Gideon deflates, swiping a palm down his face, his shoulders dropping, curling inward.
His failed transformation makes me so livid I can’t breathe. I see red. And say what I know will solidify the wrongness between us now.
“When Nate comes, you can go. Find a home somewhere. A chateau in the South of France or something. Just… go. Make art. Keep trying to save irredeemable women.”
“Are you serious?” he whispers, then more loudly, “Are you fucking serious?”
“Yes,” I hiss.
He shakes his head, expression caught between disbelief and pain. “I don’t know what happened to you in that place, but I know you were violated in just about every possible way. I know you need time to recover, and a safe place, and love—”
“Don’t you get it?” I explode, jumping off the bed and almost falling as dizziness hits. Even now—after what I’ve said—Gideon still reaches for me, still tries to help. I throw a hand toward him and he stops.
“I love you, Deirdre. That doesn’t change. Deep down, you’re the same person. My Van Gogh painting. My treasure. I still want to see every part of you.”
My rage goes white-hot.
“No, you don’t. You say that, but you don’t know what it means. The things I’ve done—”
“Were forced to do!”
“Was I?” I holler, throwing my arms up. “I can’t remember! I used to think I loved him, Gideon. I had feelings for a monster. What does that make me? A—”
“Victim of a madman!”
“Monster, too!”
Our chests heaving, we stare at each other, the divide between us widening again. I think, This is how we end, and all I feel is empty.
