Chapter 17 BETH #2
“Okay,” I whispered.
“It’s not okay, Elizabeth,” he countered. “I know it wasn’t right. I know I should have–”
“But you didn’t.” My voice didn’t shake.
But my chest did. “The worst part right now is that you can’t even promise that it won’t happen again.
If you can’t explain it, that means you haven’t figured out how to fix it.
And if you can’t fix it, it’s going to keep happening.
You’re going to keep disappearing like this.
And that’s what I said I didn’t want, Callan. ”
The silence that followed was the answer.
He had nothing to say. Nothing to give me. Nothing he could promise.
My throat tightened and I looked away, blinking fast at the blur of shadows. He shouldn’t have come at all. He shouldn’t have reminded me what it felt like to be in his presence, consumed by the embers of his fire.
He should have remained gone. I was already forgetting what his warmth felt like. Eventually, I would’ve forgotten completely. And I would have moved on with time.
“I think.” I swallowed, couldn’t believe the words forming in my mouth. “Maybe you should stop. This should stop.”
He went very still. The kind that wasn’t quite human. His breath caught, like I had reached into his chest and pressed my thumb hard into something raw.
“I can’t handle this.” My arms tightened around my body. “I can handle every other harsh reality. I have been adjusting so far, really. But I refuse to add someone who isn’t stable to it. Someone who disappears when things get heavy. I’m only human. I can’t handle everything.”
He opened his mouth but nothing came out.
I didn’t look at him anymore. Because if I did, I would take everything I said back. And I refused to do such a thing. So I turned away, letting the shadow swallow half of my face.
“If you are going to keep disappearing like this, then it’s better if you stopped coming. So please, stop coming.”
The wind rustled and moaned as if mourning this moment. And somewhere down the street, the streetlight buzzed out.
How cinematic.
My legs felt heavy, but I moved them anyway, towards the house, away from him, away from the man I was almost–if not already–falling for.
In my head I saw him reach for me, desperately, trying to grab my hand, to make me stay because he yearned for me just as much as I yearned for him. But in reality, he was just standing there, silent, like my words had cut him in places he didn’t know he could bleed.
Like every other thing I had desired, Callan Raskov was just a moment, moving through my dreams, and disappearing the moment my eyes opened.
Mother was still standing in the kitchen when I returned to the house. I would give anything to be able to just walk to my room without having to give her audience. Only if wishes were horses.
“I was beginning to think you wanted to sleep out there in the yard tonight,” she said, her tone almost playful. It was a trap, and I knew.
There was not going to be a warm moment between the two of us right now. We were not going to sit across from each other and share a nice thought.
The writing was on the wall, bold and clear. Mother was frustrated. Mother was tired. Mother needed a punching bag.
“Come here.” The shift in her tone was expected; sharp, instant, and commanding.
Taking a deep breath, I began to walk to the kitchen, my body bracing for her treachery.
“Who was that?” she asked, not breaking her gaze from the glass bowl in front of her as she massaged dry herbs and seasoning into freshly cut chicken breasts. Yes, only Elodie Anne would be in the kitchen at nearly 1 am, cooking.
“Who?” Playing dumb wouldn’t work. It never did. But I tried anyway.
She paused her action and turned around to face me, her eyes a canvas of malice. “Now, did you seriously think I didn’t see you talking to a strange man?”
I stared at the floorboard, even though the pattern wasn’t suddenly intricate and intriguing. I just wanted her to get it done already.
“Are you going to answer, or do I need to beat the truth out of you?”
There it was.
I took in a sharp breath. I had learned to break down her beating, to measure the pain. It took five minutes usually, ten, if she was really enraged.
“Speak!” she roared. “Who is the man you are buzzing around like a damn fly again, Beth Fraser?!”
“He was just a friend,” I murmured. Was because he was gone now.
“A friend, right?” She took steps closer, so close I could smell the aroma of ground ginger and nutmeg clinging to her hands, and her perfume that was sickly sweet, suffocating. “And you stepped out into the night to meet him? What happened to meeting during the day like normal friends do?”
I said nothing.
“Answer me!”
A burning slap snapped my head to the side, my vision titling as a dull headache exploded behind my eyes.
“Yes,” I choked out, pressing a hand to my stinging cheek. But the tears that spilled over had less to do with the pain spreading across my face, and more to do with the wave of icy hair and luminous amber eyes drifting away from me.
I had once dreamt up a tiny cabin in the mountains, filled with just enough books and the right amount of coffee as it snowed in, and we were wrapped in each other’s embrace. But now, that would never happen. Because he was gone, just like the rest that ever gave me a glimpse of hope.
“Did you sleep with him?” She breathed down on me, her voice seething. “You slept with him, didn’t you? I know you did. That’s what you are good at. I just hope he isn’t a married man. Because you just like taking things that shouldn’t be yours.”
“I didn’t,” I sobbed, my voice breaking. Callan was gone. My Snow White wasn’t mine anymore. I just wanted to be alone.
“You didn’t what?” she demanded. “You dirty whore, you didn’t what? Sleep with him? And you think your mother is a fool she will buy that cheap lie?”
“I said I didn’t sleep with him,” I snapped. “What part of ‘I didn’t’ do you not understand, Mother?!”
The flicker of reignited rage in her eyes told me I needed to expect the next hit.
“You disrespectful wrench!”
The slap sent me crashing to the floor. Pain exploded to my temple, my body absorbing the impact. But there was hardly any time to process it all as her fist tangled in my hair next, yanking me upright.
A sharp gasp ripped from my throat. A second slap, then a third, a fourth, and a fifth, until it all just became a blend of numbers floating around the dizzying room.
The next one was the most violent. It sent me stumbling toward the left, my hip colliding hard with the sharp metal handle of the pasta cabinet.
I hissed loudly in pain, hands flying to cradle the fiery scorch on my hip bone. My body shook, agony growing into a pair of bony hands, squeezing me, crushing me from the inside.
Another gasp broke past my lips as her hand fisted my hair again, dragging me backwards, my heels scraping the floor.
“Were you actually raising your voice at me just now?” she snarled, grip tightening around the hair, loosening the band until strands fell over my face, soaking in the hot ears streaming down my cheeks.
“No.” My voice quavered, my head shaking desperately and rapidly.
“The next time you raise your voice at me again.” Each word was uttered through clenched teeth, her gaze dark and vindictive as her nails dug into my jaw. “I swear, I’ll pluck that tongue right out of your mouth!”
Then, without warning, she released her hold violently. I stumbled forward with such speed, and before I could catch myself, my lips were planting on the sharp edge of the marble counter, pain, hot and sharp, spreading across my mouth.
I feared I may have knocked off a tooth as the metallic taste of blood settled in my mouth.
Slowly, I lifted my hand, touching my lips. It was wet and sticky with blood. My blood.
“Finish up the chicken,” she ordered, her footsteps receding, echoing down the hall a few seconds later. Then her door slammed shut.
A few minutes passed before I managed to drag myself to my room, closing the door behind me.
I slid to the floor, a sob bursting from my chest before I could swallow it down. I cried, hard and loud. Because that was all I could do.
Cry.
Callan was just a dream.
A really short, but beautiful dream.