Chapter 10 The Confession
The Confession
My small apartment feels suddenly, suffocatingly tight as the weight of Shadow’s confession presses down on me.
"Imprisoned?" It comes out a whisper.
Something inside me twists so hard it feels like my ribs are trying to crush my heart.
The word hangs heavily in the air between us.
Tendrils of darkness wrap around me, their comforting presence doing little to ease the weight of his admission. A lump rises in my throat as I try to process what he just said.
"Because of what I did for you," he supplies.
Because of that night.
A shudder rolls through me. My hands tremble, my heart stumbles, and my knees threaten to buckle. Shadow is the only thing keeping me upright.
"It is against the law of my land to do what I did. And I paid the price for it."
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. There are prisons where he’s from?
He didn’t abandon me?
He was kept from me?
"And I’d gladly pay it again, but when I felt you—" His monstrous voice turns strained. "When you brought that human here to do things to you—"
I flinch like he slapped me. Not because of his anger, but because I made him imagine it.
Anger rises in his tone and his eyes. "I couldn’t stay where I was. I had to get to you. I thought you were in danger. I thought... "
Shadow thought exactly what I wanted him to—and it worked. He felt me, and he came. But I didn’t know where he’d been.
"I broke free. And since then, I’ve been hunted."
There’s something terrifying in that simple sentence. Not just the threat chasing him, but the fact that he ran toward me anyway.
I read his darkness like a book. Fear. Trepidation.
My mind reels at the idea that something could be stronger than Shadow.
"No." It seems to be the only word I can manage. I find his shoulders and hang on to the thick, solid muscle there. When my thoughts settle enough to surface, I push him away. "Then you shouldn’t have done it."
My voice comes out crueler than I mean it to, because the thought of him hurting for me shreds something soft inside.
Tears sting my eyes. "You should have let him—"
"No," Shadow roars, filling the room as he grows even bigger.
Elijah curses and pounds against the thin apartment wall, breaking the silence that follows.
"If I knew it would take you away from me, I would’ve stopped you," I say in a ragged whisper. I touch my cheeks and find them wet with tears I hadn’t noticed falling.
The agony radiating from him has a heat to it as he draws near. "I’d suffer the torture of the Pit for a thousand years if it meant keeping you safe."
He said Pit like it was a place. A proper noun. A prison carved from nightmares.
The ache in my chest builds and builds until I’m not sure I can stand it.
"I need you," I say as firmly as I can, though my voice still shakes. "And... "
I stutter as I prepare to rip my heart out from under my cage of bones. "And I want you."
I never wanted to need anyone. But somehow, he became breath and gravity.
"Evie."
The way he says my name—like an apology wrapped in a goodbye.
He doesn’t need to say more.
I swallow hard and lift my chin. "I know," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "I know it can never be, but I can’t help how I feel."
I take a step back from him, trying to regain some composure. My arms cross over my torso, like that could hold me together.
Shadow contorts in agony, and for a moment I think he might reach out—
And just like that, he’s gone. And I’m left with nothing but the shape of him still pressed into the air.
He vanishes into a cloud of darkness.
Silence envelops me as I woodenly sit on the bed. The emptiness of the room is as suffocating as the heat pumping through the vents.
Everything he confessed revealed an entirely new world I never knew existed. But I don’t even care. Because all I know is, no matter what, I’ll always wait for him to come to me.
A purgatory of waiting that I deserve—for sending him to a place of isolation and pain.
He might as well have handed me over to Miguel with a bow.
The cold wind whips my face as Miguel and I step out into the biting winter. Even with the chill, anxiety prickles like heat beneath my skin. Miguel’s been so earnest about introducing me to his friends. He says they’re like family. But the idea took a lot of convincing on his part.
I’ve been alone for so long that the thought of being thrust into a group feels intimidating. I’m not sure I even know what "normal" means.
"We’re almost there," Miguel murmurs, pulling me closer. The dimly lit streets don’t do much to ease my apprehension.
The neon sign of the burger joint flickers, and I can already spot the chipped tiles from outside. The smell of grease and fried food hangs thick in the air, making my mouth water. Taking a deep breath, we step inside.
Warmth envelopes us. The glow from overhead lamps shines over a table at the back, where a bunch of people our age chatter animatedly. Laughter bubbles up from the group, infectious even from a distance. Miguel waves, drawing a chorus of greetings from the table.
"Evie, these are my friends," Miguel says, a hint of pride in his voice. Most of them offer genuine smiles and kind eyes. But there’s a pair of eyes that scrutinize me.
A young woman with sharp features, raven-black hair, and heavy purple makeup.
Beside her, a guy with a square haircut gives me an equally weighing look.
"This is Carla," Miguel says, nodding toward the woman, "and that’s Tony." He lists off five more names I forget as soon as I hear them. A knot tightens in my chest as I realize I’ll have to start paying better attention.
Miguel seamlessly fits in with the group.
He’s a part of this mosaic of shared jokes, tales from classes, and mutual gripes about bosses and professors.
He laughs easily, throwing his head back in carefree abandon, mimicking a professor with an absurd posture.
The group bursts into another round of laughter.
For a fleeting moment, I almost touch the edges of that carefree, goofy energy.
My fingers skim the glass separating me and everyone at the table, and I can feel the vibrations of their lives.
I imagine having stories about classroom escapades, where my biggest complaint is about early morning lectures or difficult assignments. A pang shoots through my chest.
Did I not work hard enough? Or was that never going to be enough?
The girl seated across from me, Carla, offers a saccharine smile. "So, Evie, Miguel tells us you’re a house cleaner? That must be... interesting." There’s an underlying tone that doesn’t sit right with me.
I nod, trying to keep my voice even. "It’s a job." Then, noting Miguel’s attention, I add, "A job I’m grateful to have. My boss is great too."
He shoots me a warm smile, with a knowing glint in his eyes. As if to say, "Are you sucking up for my benefit? My aunt’s not here."
Tony, leaning back, smirks. "College not for you, then?"
I simply shake my head.
"So, no plans for college, then? Just... cleaning?" Carla asks, feigning interest. Her words carry a clear judgment. Her long lashes sweep toward Miguel as if trying to clue him in on what a dud I am.
I swallow the lump forming in my throat. The air suddenly tastes like bleach—sharp and impossible to swallow. "For now. Who knows about the future?"
I’ve never had the time to even plan for a future. But right now, heat rises in my cheeks as I desperately wish I had. It’s hard to plan for anything when every day feels like I’m fighting just to make ends meet.
The rest of the group seems to sense the tension, exchanging awkward glances. Carla goes on as if she doesn’t notice.
"Your eyes are such an unusual color, Evie. Has anyone ever told you they find them... unsettling?"
Miguel squeezes my hand under the table, his grip reassuring. "I think they’re beautiful and striking," he says.
Something dark crosses Carla’s face for a moment before she pastes on her fake smile again.
Attempting to change the topic, another friend asks about my hobbies. But Carla isn’t finished.
As the night progresses, every question she throws my way is a veiled insult. Her intrigue isn’t out of genuine interest—it’s a way to judge and categorize me.
"That’s a unique skin tone you have, Evie. Does it come from being indoors all day, or is it just natural?" She cocks her head, lips curled into a smile that doesn’t touch her eyes.
"I bet cleaning other people’s messes gives you a lot of time to think about what you could’ve been, right?" Her voice is light, but each word feels like a lead weight in my stomach.
"Do you ever think you’re missing out on something better, not going to college?" Carla’s gaze is relentless, as if she’s dissecting every part of my life, looking for more cracks to exploit.
The tension feels like a physical wall I have to push through just to breathe.
"I’ve always admired how… low maintenance some people can be. You must save so much time not worrying about makeup or skincare," she continues, her voice oozing false admiration.
"Miguel, you’re always so relaxed about food. How does that work with Evie? She seems like she must be counting every calorie that goes into her mouth."
Her words are a dagger, aimed directly at my insecurities.
With each passive-aggressive remark, I retreat further into myself.
I try to maintain composure, but Carla’s words chip away at what little confidence I have.
My fingers curl into the soft fabric of my sweater, as if I could disappear inside it.
Every muscle in my body is tense and coiled, ready to spring up and flee at any moment.
Or if I’m being honest with myself, I want to punch her in her smug face. I work to smother my dark, violent urges.
Suddenly, Miguel’s voice cuts through the tension, sharp and unyielding. "Carla, enough with the passive-aggressive bullshit," he says, his tone brooking no argument. "Evie is an incredible person, and her job doesn’t define her worth."
Carla’s expression sours instantly, her eyes narrowing into slits. "I’m just trying to get to know her better," she retorts, but her insincerity is as clear as glass.
"Well, I think you’re forgetting my family is in the business," he adds coolly. "And I’m just as proud of them as I am of Evie. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were ashamed of your mother for being a toll-booth operator and your dad for working in landscaping."
Her face contorts, lips twisting with the ugliness of her insides.
Miguel’s grip on my hand is the only thing anchoring me, a barrier between me and the pull of violence.
Carla leans forward, her movements deliberate, and reaches for a napkin. With a faux-concerned expression, she extends it toward my neck, as if attempting to wipe away the lightning bolt-like fern pattern that marks my skin.
I instinctively grab her wrist, stopping her. "Don’t," is all I get out.
"Oh, your birthmark is so... unique," she says, her voice dripping with feigned surprise. She knows exactly what she’s doing.
If Shadow were here, he’d rip her arm right off. I’m tempted to do it myself. Make her bleed, make her scream, make her fear me.
I lock down the impulse so hard I stop breathing. My nails dig into her flesh. It’d be so easy to break her.
A frown pulls her perfect brows down. "You’re hurting me."
We continue to stare at each other, locked in a silent battle. Something in her face shifts—recoils—as if she sees something in me that scares her. As if she wonders how much of her blood I could splatter across the walls.
"Evie?" Miguel says.
His voice is distant. Like it’s echoing down a long tunnel I’m not ready to come out of.
Finally, I release her wrist. She pulls her hand under the table, rubbing it with the other. "Freak," she mumbles.
I don’t stop staring at her, still playing with violent images in my mind. And she doesn’t meet my gaze again. She ignores my presence entirely for the rest of the night.
The realization that she’s afraid of me sparks something hot and dark in my chest.
I can’t help but feel Shadow would be proud of his little monster.
When it’s finally time to leave, Miguel wraps his arm around me. As soon as we’re out of earshot, he says, "I’m so sorry, Evie. Sometimes my friends can be real shitheads."
I can’t even fake a smile. "It’s not your fault. I told you, groups aren’t my thing."
Miguel stops me, turning to face me. His warm breath puffs in the cold night air. "You’re so much better than any of them. I don’t give two craps about Carla. She’s not half the woman you are. She’s threatened and needs to put you down to make herself feel better."
He hooks a finger under my chin and kisses me tenderly. I feel wooden under his touch, but I appreciate that he’s trying.
"There’s no one like you, Evie," he says against my lips. "I’d trade a thousand Carlas for five minutes with you."
The words are romantic, heartfelt, and sincere.
And yet, they bounce off me like petals thrown at a stone.
So why do they land like lead in my stomach?
Because I don’t want pretty words. I want the darkness that already knows me.