Chapter Four #2
He steers me away from the main loop, his grip on my neck insistent and painful as he forces me to match his long, angry strides.
We move like a single, jagged shadow through the crowd, people parting instinctively before the intensity in his gaze.
He pulls me away from the music and the bunting, dragging me down a narrow service path where the trees swallow the light.
He turns us into a narrow alleyway between a hardware store and a closed diner. The transition is jarring. Deep shadows and the smell of damp brick and garbage replace the bright sun and loud music. The ground is uneven and slick with unknown fluids.
He spins me around, pinning my back against the rough, red brick wall.
The impact knocks the breath from my lungs as the brick scrapes against my bare shoulders, a sharp, stinging sensation that grounds me in the moment.
Emmett is right there, his body a solid wall of heat pressing against mine, his hands coming up to bracket my head against the wall.
His eyes are dark, the gold flecks in them looking like sparks in a forge.
"Is this what you want, Ava?" he asks, his voice a dangerous purr. "To see if the Red Trail leads to a world where you do not belong to me? To see if some boy with a tray of lemonade can give you the rhythm you are looking for?"
"I just wanted to watch the parade," I cry out, my voice echoing off the damp brick walls. "I wanted one day where I don’t feel like a prisoner."
He leans in, his chest crushing mine, his face inches from my own.
I can see the pulse jumping in his neck, the raw, unchecked jealousy that drives his every move.
This is the dark core of our marriage; It's not built on love, but on a hunger so deep it threatens to consume us both.
The alleyway is silent except for the distant sound of the parade and our ragged breathing.
"You are not a prisoner, Ava. You are a wife," he whispers, his hand sliding down to grip my chin. He forces me to meet his gaze, his fingers digging into my skin. "And a wife does not look for exits. She does not smile at strangers. She stays in rhythm with her husband."
He leans down and kisses me, a physical reclamation of territory.
It's a bruising, desperate kiss that tastes of salt and suppressed rage.
It's a punishment for my curiosity, a reminder that my body is territory he has already conquered and intends to hold. My hands, which were meant to push him away, find their way to his waist, my fingers digging into the linen of his shirt as if I’m trying to pull him into my very skin.
I hate the way I respond to him—the way the terror and the desire blur into a single, overwhelming frequency that feels more like a heartbeat than a choice.
He is the storm that breaks me, and the only shelter I have left.
He pulls back, his breathing ragged as his forehead rests against mine. The anger is still there, but it has been tempered by the contact, turned into something heavy and smoldering. He looks at me with a mixture of hatred and adoration that makes my head spin.
"Do not ever do that again," he says. It's a decree, not a request.
"I didn’t do anything," I whisper, my voice breaking.
"You existed," he says, as if that explains the violence of his reaction. "And that is enough to drive me insane."
He pulls away, smoothing his shirt and adjusting the red belt at my waist with terrifyingly steady hands. He brushes a stray hair from my face, his touch suddenly gentle, as if he had not just slammed me into a wall. The transition is so fast it leaves me breathless.
"Let us go back to the retreat," he says. "The town is too loud. We have the Letting Go ceremony tonight. It's a tradition at Ironcliff. You are going to love it."
We get out of the truck and walk back toward the camper in a silence that feels like a live wire.
As we move further from the docks, I look up at the mountains looming over the gorge.
They look like jagged teeth waiting to grind us into nothing.
The green of the forest is so dark it looks black, a wall of wood and stone that offers no escape.
Returning to the Airstream, we find the interior stifling. Emmett pulls a small silver object from his pocket, the metal glinting as he takes my hand. His fingers trace the jade ring that belonged to my mother, his touch lingering on the stone I never take off.
"I have a gift for you, Ave," he says, his voice dropping to a soft, melodic whisper that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
He slides the silver band onto my finger, the metal cold and clinical against my skin.
His eyes searching mine with a dark, bottomless devotion.
"Now, no matter where you go on this mountain... I will always be able to find you. You are the only thing that matters, Ava. I’m never letting you be lost again. "
"What is this?"
"It's a safety measure," he says, a small, dark smile touching his lips. "It has a GPS tracker linked to my phone. Now, no matter where you go on this mountain, no matter which trail you choose, I will always be able to find you. You will never have to worry about being lost again."
The air in the camper suddenly feels thinner, as if the oxygen is being systematically removed. I look at the ring, then back at Emmett. He looks satisfied, like a man who has finally solved a difficult puzzle. He leans down to kiss my forehead, his lips cool against my skin.
"I have to go help with the bonfire preparations," he says. "Stay here. Get some rest. We have a big night ahead of us."
He leaves, and the click of the door sounds like the closing of a tomb.
I sit on the bed, staring at the silver ring on my finger.
It glints in the afternoon light, a beautiful, high-tech shackle.
I reach for the jade ring, intending to slide both of them off, but the silver band is tight.
As I tug at it, I feel a sharp prick against my skin.
I pull my hand away and see a tiny drop of blood blooming on my finger.
I look closer at the ring. On the inside of the band, there are tiny, needle-like protrusions. They are not enough to cause serious pain, but they are designed to catch on the skin if the ring is pulled too hard. It's a ring that cannot be removed without a struggle.
I look at the window, at the patch of blue sky visible through the trees.
The Fourth of July fireworks are only hours away.
The Letting Go ceremony is coming, a ritual designed to burn away the burdens of the past. But as I look at the silver band on my finger, I realize that Emmett is not letting go of anything. He is just tightening his grip.
The sound of the falls vibrates through the thin walls of the camper, a relentless, rhythmic presence that feels like a countdown. I am no longer just a ship caught in his storm; I am a ghost trapped in a silver cage, and the key has been lost to the abyss.
My hand brushes against the small, wooden bird resting on the bedside table.
I reach out and trace the curve of its broken wings, the grain of the wood familiar and rough against my skin.
I shift its position on the polished surface, ensuring it sits exactly where I can see it from the pillow.
As I move, the fabric of my dress bunches around me.
I slide my hands into the deep pockets hidden in the side seams, seeking the small comfort of the heavy material.
"I am going to find a way," I whisper to the empty room.
I look at the flashing blue light on my finger and feel a sick, heavy pulse of longing.
I am his ghost, and he is my haunting. As I say the words, the silver ring on my finger pulses with a faint, blue light, a reminder that he is listening.
He is always listening. The cliffhanger is not the drop at the end of the falls.
It's the realization that I am already falling, and the man I love is the one holding the parachute, refusing to pull the cord because he’d rather we hit the ground together than let me fly away alone.