Epilogue #4
“Oh, you’re in for such a surprise, trust me.”
“Does it come with a little bow tied around it? Your surprise.”
His eyes aren’t on my face when he says it or purrs it actually. They are somewhere down below. On my stomach, to be exact. And after a second, I realize why.
It’s because my dress has a bow wrapped around my waist.
It’s a lacy thing, my dress. White and covered in embroidered blue flowers that ends mid-thigh, paired with matching blue ballet flats. When I put this on earlier tonight, I thought it was girly and cute and perfect for a secret night out with my friends.
But right now, with the way he’s staring at my bow and the ruffled hem that skims my bare thighs, my cute dress turns into something indecent.
Something that you wear behind closed doors. Something that’s meant to be stared at and devoured and ripped to shreds by a guy whose intentions are as dark as his skin is glittering.
Perv.
“No, it comes with long nails and sharp teeth,” I tell him with a sweet, mocking smile and a chirpy voice.
He lifts his eyes and drawls, “Well then I’ll be over here, sitting on the edge of my seat, waiting to unwrap it.”
Okay, I lied. Again.
I can’t do this. I can’t sound casual and breezy and unaffected. When he is being so purposefully intense.
I don’t know what his game is, but I want him gone. And the only way to make it happen is to find out what he wants. Why he sought me out.
Knowing him, he came here to ruffle my feathers, make me squirm. Which is fine. Really.
Let him do what he came here to do.
Because the sooner he does all of that to his satisfaction, he can leave and I can move forward to forgetting this terrible coincidence.
“As much as I’m enjoying talking to you,” I burst out as my nails scrape against the liquor bottle. “I don’t have time for this. So let’s do it.”
“Let’s do it,” he says flatly.
I widen my stance, shift on my feet like a fighter, getting ready to throw in punches. “Yeah. Let’s do this thing so you can leave me alone.”
He watches my feet for a second, notices my stance before asking in a low voice, “Are you sure?”
I raise my chin and wave my hands. “Yes. Come on. I’m ready.”
“Okay.” He nods, his eyes hooded. “Where do you want it?”
“What?”
At my question, the air turns hot.
I don’t know how he does that, turn the air around us so dense and opaque with just one look. But it’s always been this way.
He always makes it harder for me to breathe.
Like he’s suffocating me and I love it because he does it so sweetly.
He gestures toward the wall that I’m standing against. “Yeah, where do you want it? Here, up against the wall? Or in the backseat of my car.” He doesn’t give me the time to respond to his statement.
“It’s been two years but I remember how much you seemed to love writhing on my leather seats.
And if I’m being honest, I’d love to see that again. But lady’s choice, of course.”
“What… I…”
My mouth is in the process of forming confused, dumbfounded words when I get his meaning. His stupid innuendo.
He’s talking about sex.
The fucking asshole is talking about sex because I stupidly said, let’s do it. That’s it, isn’t it?
Ugh. I’m an idiot.
But! The motherfucking nerve of him!
“You’re funny,” I snap. “And delusional. If you think I’m letting you touch me ever again, you need your head examined.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. Because it’s never happening. So say what you came here to say and leave.”
He looks at me thoughtfully. “Hmm. I’m not so sure you want me to leave though. Because this feels like a dare and you know how much I like those.”
I clench my teeth while I debate throwing this bottle at him. “It’s not a dare, it’s reality. Touch me and lose your teeth. So you really need to leave now.”
Instead, he smiles, his ruby red, cruel and gorgeous lips, stretch up in a curve as he takes a step closer and I press my back into the wall. “You’re not making it easy though.”
“Not making what easy?”
He takes another step toward me as if to act out his next word. “Leaving.”
“Get away from me or I’ll punch you, okay? I’m not kidding.”
He dips his face toward me, his voice going even lower while I’m over here, squeaking. “If you keep talking like that, I’ll start getting ideas.”
“What ideas?”
“That you’re flirting with me.”
I swallow as my skin starts to feel tight, restless. Swollen.
God, why? Why does he have to be like this?
Seductive and stunning and so freaking consuming.
Why does my body have to react to it?
He broke our heart, you stupid body. He betrayed us, remember? We were in pain for days. Weeks.
We still are…
“Oh my God, you are delusional,” I tell him, fisting my hands.
Reed shakes his head slowly, his eyes glittering with challenge. “You know you don’t have to try so hard with me. You want me to touch you, Fae, just say the word.”
Fae.
And just like that, I stop breathing.
I stop shaking. My restlessness evaporates and I freeze.
I freeze in a time two years ago. When he used to call me that.
His white mustang was his baby and I was his Fae, short for Fairy. It’s because of my blonde hair, blue eyes and a pocket-sized body but with long, graceful, dancer’s limbs.
His words, not mine.
I’m not pocket-sized. I’m an average 5’ 4 ⒈／⒉”. But like a foolish girl that I was, it used to make me happy. It used to make me smile that he had a special name for me. I had a special name for him too but I’m not going there.
I’m never going there.
I take a deep breath, clutch my whiskey bottle and look him in the eyes.
“Hey, Reed.” Deliberately emphasizing his name, I smile with my mouth but my eyes are lethal; I can feel it.
“I know it’s been two years and all but my name is Calliope Thorne.
People also call me Callie. And if I’m being honest, I’d rather you not call me anything at all. But asshole’s choice, of course.”
He smiles too. Not the full-blown smile from a few seconds ago but a fraction of it. And like me, his mouth might be smiling but his eyes are grave, intense, heavy with our shared past.
“Calliope Juliet Thorne,” he murmurs. “I know what your name is, Fae. I also know what my name is. Do you?”
My breaths escalate.
They swell and crash inside my lungs when I think of his name, his full name.
Reed Roman Jackson.
This time when I go back in time, I can hear my own voice, my sixteen-year-old smiling voice, telling him, I’m Juliet and you’re Roman.
And everybody knows that Roman is just a different version of Romeo.
So that means we’re Romeo and Juliet. Which also means that we should probably stay away from each other. Since they both die and all…
If only I had taken my own advice and stayed away from him.
It’s in our very names, our fate. Our catastrophe. Our destruction.
“You said that our names made us Shakespearean, star-crossed lovers,” he says, bringing me back to the moment. “A teenage tragedy. And I told you that they didn’t. Because what did fucking Shakespeare know? To me, you’ll always be Fae. And to you, I’ll always be Roman.”
That’s what I used to call him, Roman. Not Reed.
Because back then I was a fool. I thought he belonged to me like I belonged to him.
So like arrogant, defiant lovers, we gave each other secret names, names only meant for us: Roman and Fae.
What a stupid idea to call each other by different names.
What a stupid fucking thing: first love.
One minute it’s life and the next, it’s death.
That’s what it felt like when he broke my heart. That I’d died and so in this moment, I pull myself together and straighten my spine.
It’s hard but it needs to be done.
When you fall in love with a quicksand of a guy like him, you need to be strong.
Your heart needs to be made of iron and your spine needs to be forged out of steel so you can look him in the eyes and tell him, “I remember. I remember everything. I remember everything I said to you and everything you said to me. And that’s why I know that we are a teenage tragedy.
Because you made sure of that, didn’t you?
” I clench my teeth for a second because I feel a pain starting up in my chest, traveling up to my jaw, my temples, stinging my eyes.
“So get away from me because I wasn’t kidding about you losing your teeth. Reed.”
For a few seconds after I’m done, it feels like I haven’t spoken at all.
Because he doesn’t move. In fact, he bends down toward me even more.
Our eyes are connected, his gaze calm and scrutinizing while mine is wide and fearful of his intentions. A microsecond later, I feel something happening, something slipping from my fingers before he straightens back up.
It’s my bottle. He stole my whiskey from me.
I fist my empty hands. “Give it back.”
Again instead of obeying me, he throws his head back and swallows down a huge gulp of my whiskey. Asshole.
When he’s done, his red lips glisten and his face sparkles like the moon. “See you around, Fae.”
And then he’s gone and I can breathe.
But it’s not as glorious, to be able to breathe, as I thought it would be.
Because with every breath that I take, I think of him.
I think of how beautiful he is, how gorgeous. How he looks like a prince. A hero. And how it’s all a facade.
Because he’s anything but a hero. He’s a villain.
A gorgeous villain.
Before you go, want more Salem and Arrow? Click here to get an Extended Epilogue.