Because I’mnotfucking crazy, and Inevercheated on Malachi, and Ineverbetrayed my family, and my faulty memory is beating my frontal lobes like a hammer smacking steel with all the knowledge I lost years ago.
I have been vindicated in a firestorm of gunpowder, lead, and blood, but none of it matters now. I can feel Malachi slipping through my fingers, and every egregious wrong he committed against me just doesn’t matter anymore.
He struggles to draw in oxygen, and I can see in my periphery that he’s gripping the pistol, and he’s still trying. He’s on his back, bleeding to death, one hand on my forehead in a futile attempt to shield me from a bullet, and the other holding a pistol that I know he won’t be able to fire.
He’s literally dying right in front of me, and he’s still trying to protect me, just like he always promised he would, and I can’t do anything.
Neither he, nor me, nor my parents have any control over this situation, and these men will torture me one last time, and then I will die here in my lifelong home.
But it’s all suddenly right and fatalistic because I will also die right next to the man who was my lifelong love.
‘Til death do we part.
That was the vow, and there were a few hiccups, and this isn’t the way I had always dreamed of it panning out, but we are here now, and it feels like destiny.
I press my hands harder against Malachi’s wounded abdomen so I can feel his pulse for as long as these cretins will allow, when there’s another explosion of gunfire, and I snap my gaze up from Malachi’s pallid face.
Joaquin.
My baby brother is on the other side of the room, one of Papá’s hunting rifles raised at the level of his shoulder, and then the man gripping my hair releases it and collapses behind me.
Joaquin chambers another round, his brown eyes now black with focus and fury, and then shifts the barrel, and another shot rings out.
To my right, my last surviving rapist falls dead.
The last intruder appears to panic and fumble with his rifle, but Joaquin slides the bolt again and pulls the trigger.
The air is thick with smoke, and silence, and the heady, metallic scent of blood, and Malachi’s cold hand slides from my forehead to the side of my neck.
“Isla.”He drags in another ragged breath.“I failed you. I’m sorry.”
I draw my gaze down to meet his lidded, pewter eyes that are suddenly a paler silver than they’ve ever been. The Beast in the bed of roses is no longer a beast, rather he’s simply the boy I’ve always loved. And there is no bed of metaphorical roses, and only a growing pool of blood.
Joaquin is shouting in the background at who I can only assume is a 9-1-1 dispatcher, but I don’t really hear him. Mamá is suddenly at my side, wedging her arms under mine with some sort of cloth as she attempts to stop the bleeding with pressure, and I place my blood-soaked hands on Malachi’s face.
“You didn’t,” I tell him, my words tripping on a boulder-sized lump lodged in my throat as his hand slips from my neck to fall at his side. “You’re here. You stopped them. I’m okay. You’re going to be okay, too,amor. Just hold on. Help is coming. Just hold on.”
I can’t even believe the things I’m saying to him because his pale irises are drifting from side to side like he can’t even see me anymore.
I lean over his face, my hair falling around us, hiding us in the same secret place we always shared, and draw my thumbs over his cheeks. “Just hang on,cariño. Try to look at me.”
“Isla.” He attempts to inhale again, but this time it’s even more shallow and labored, and his face is so cold and so pale, and he can’t even verbalize when his mouth forms the words,I’m sorry.
I can’t hold back the sob that explodes from me, and I hear Mamá silently petitioning all the saints of heaven, andDios, por favor. Dios ayúdame.“Don’t waste your energy apologizing right now. It’s stupid. Just look at me,amor.”
And then he does. His eyes still and focus like lasers on mine, limpid and earnest, and his lips part again. “World without end…”
A hundred thousand images flood my mind over the course of mere seconds.
I’m three years old, he’s five, and we’re playing on a beach only a mile or two from here. He’s built us a castle from sand and shells and driftwood, and it’s the earliest memory I have.
“You see this, baby Isla?”he queries, picking up my chubby, little hand to place a palmful of tiny shells in it, which I use to mash into the sides. “This is my palace in Corwick, and this is the balcony where you can see the ocean. Your mama and papa are going to bring you here this autumn, and I’m going to show you the sunrise on that balcony. It’s so pretty, and you will never want to watch the sunrise anywhere else.”
Excitement bubbles in my tiny chest at the idea of going to a real castle, and I beam at him. I beam for so long, that he beams back and leans forward to plant a little, wet kiss on my forehead. “You are the sweetest little girl, you know that? You are my very favorite friend.”
Another second; another image.
I’m seven years old, he’s nine, and I’m shaken awake in the middle of the night by shouting voices, and I instinctively leap from my bed and crawl out my window.
