by Mara Black
He was just staring at me, incredulously. I drifted off.
"Really?" he said. "Are you still trying to appeal to my sympathy? After all that? Knowing what I did to her, you still think I'm human?"
My heart stopped beating.
A dark cloud had passed over Tate's face, and there was nothing left of the cold detachment or sarcasm that so often lurked. He was pure anger and regret. Pure self-loathing.
Knowing what I did to her.
Tate must have been the one to break her. To train her. Taking her apart, piece by piece, to rebuild her into the perfect slave. Only it had unforeseen consequences. She didn't just turn into a perfect slave, she turned into his perfect slave. Stoker must have forced them apart, broken her heart completely, broken her mind. Maybe he didn't speak out. Maybe he didn't stand up for her, because he knew it would end worse for both of them if he did.
No wonder he felt guilty.
"You had no choice," I said, quickly, taking a guess at what he meant. "I know that. I understand."
"You. You understand," he repeated, raking his hands through his hair. A dark, bitter laugh escaped his throat. "Just like that, is it? A few days under Stoker's care and you're another victim just like me. You're just brimming over with compassion."
I stared at him. "You don't deserve what happened to you." Who was I trying to convince?
"Oh," he said, softly, with another deep chuckle that chilled me to the bone. "I see. You've figured it out. All this time, I've just been trying to turn myself into the kind of person who really did deserve it. So my world will finally make sense. At last, now that you've come along with my diagnosis, I can find peace!"
His harsh, mocking tone fell flat on my ears. I refused to get angry. I knew that was what he wanted. If he could push me far enough, he would break my compassion, force me to fight back. But I knew there was truth in what he said. He wasn't making fun of the "diagnosis," he was making fun of the idea that it mattered.
He was telling me that he was too far gone.
He was telling me, in his own way, to turn tail ran run the fuck away.
"It doesn't have to define you," I said, calmly. "Look at Joshua."
A smirk. "If that boy thinks he's been working for Stoker this long, without it rubbing off on him - he's a bigger fucking idiot than I thought." His fists clenched. "Doesn't matter how noble you are. Doesn't matter what intentions drive you. You're still breaking human beings for sport."
"So we are human," I said. "We are deserving of a little dignity."
Tate shrugged, his eyes in the candlelight dark and endless, like obsidian. "When you break a teacup on the floor, in a thousand shards, does it matter whether it deserves to be whole again?"
This was my moment. To be angry. To protest and fight back, and insist that people aren't teacups. They matter. They're not replaceable.
But I wouldn't take the bait.
"No," I said, so softly that he leaned forward.
"What's that?" he demanded. "I can't hear you."
"No," I said, drawing my head a little higher.
Tate stared at me, waiting for something else. Waiting, and waiting.
"There's no place in this world for broken things," he said, finally.
"So you discard them," I suggested, my hands clasped tightly in front of me.
He didn't respond.
"That's your point, isn't it?" I could feel my temperature rising, but I forced myself to keep calm. Steady. Serene. "That broken things ought to be thrown away. Get your dustpan and your broom. Sweep up the shards. Take them out with the other unwanted refuse."
Tate kept watching me. His eyes daring me to continue.
"Your life is covered in broken shards," I said, softly. "You never swept a single one away."
He didn't answer. His eyes flicked away from mine, and I felt a moment of triumph.
I'd won.
"What would you have done?" he said, at last, looking up at me again. His voice and his eyes were duller now, but a fire still smoldered inside. "Don't lie to me. Tell me the truth."
Swallowing hard, I deflected as best I could. "I don't know."
"Yes, you do. Everyone at least thinks they have an answer." A bitter smile tugged at his mouth. "What do you think it would be like? Hmm? Coming across an injured animal in the woods, and putting it down, out of mercy? Is that how it would feel?"
What the hell is he talking about?
"You know," he went on, "I know she'd be gone, either way. And I know I'm the cause of it. Take the gun out of my hand, she still dies. So why does it matter? It doesn't. I was her death sentence all along. The fact that I pulled the trigger is completely immaterial."
My world stopped.
He wasn't speaking in metaphors. No.
Tate was a murderer.
He had killed Daniela, and that was why she haunted him.
"They gave me a choice," he said. "But it was no choice at all. Not really. If I let them do it...I couldn't let them do it. They would have..." He stopped, and for a moment I thought he wouldn't be able to start again.
Finally he spoke, rough and quiet: "They would have made it hurt."
I held my breath.
"Not that she didn't deserve it," he said. "After what she did."
My fists clenched at my sides. What on earth could this woman have done to him?
"Why?" I managed to whisper.
His eyes flashed, and he was pushing himself forward in his chair, on the verge of standing. I forced myself not to flinch.
"She promised," he snarled, one lock of his perfectly-smoothed hair coming loose to dangle on his forehead. "She promised and she lied. We were going to run away together. We were going to leave all the sickness and the tears behind us. But her mind was twisted with loyalty to them. She betrayed me in exchange for her freedom, she told them everything - everything. And they gave her her freedom, all right."
His harsh laughter rang out, echoing against the high ceiling. I kept my fists clenched at my sides.
"You have no idea what she was going through." My voice was shaking, but I didn't care.
Tate laughed again.
"That's where you're wrong," he said, finally standing up, raking his fingers through his hair. "That's where you're terribly, terribly wrong, little girl."
With cold fear creeping through my veins, I sat tall, refusing to buckle under the pressure of his anger. He paced the room, staying far enough away that I was able to relax, just slightly.
"I didn't do it out of mercy," he said, finally, his voice dripping with self-loathing. "If I had, maybe I could live with myself. But I didn't. I was angry. I hated her, in that moment. She ruined everything. When they put the gun in my hand, when they told me I had to do it - I had to do it, or they'd flay her alive, piece by piece - do you think I pulled the trigger out of mercy?"
He looked at me, suddenly, his eyes hollow, and his laugh hollower still.
"I think you know me well enough, by now," he said. "Do you really think I cared for her suffering?"
My mind reeled, my stomach churning with a sudden sickness.
"Yes," I managed to say, fighting against a sob rising in my throat. "I do."
His laugh this time was harsher and louder, and he walked to me swiftly, until he was close enough to lay one firm hand on my throat. I swallowed compulsively.
"Stop it," he whispered, viciously.
"No." I stared at him, tears streaming down my cheeks.
"Why?" he demanded, bending down so his face inches from mine. "I tell you who I am, exactly what kind of person I am, over and over again. But you persist in believing I'm different. Or are you just saying what you think I want to hear?"
They made him kill her. He loved her, and they made him kill her.
"With all due respect, Sir," I said, softly, "I don't think you really want an answer."
"I'm ordering you to give me an answer," he countered, in a quiet growl.
I swallowed hard. "When I came here, I was afra
id. I was afraid because of what they let slip, calling you a killer. I was afraid because I couldn't understand what kind of person would allow another human being to feel the way I was feeling, and not automatically want to comfort them. I was terrified. When you first walked towards me with your knife, I didn't know if you were going to untie me, or slaughter me like a pig.
"The moment you cut the ropes, I knew you weren't the person you were pretending to be."
His eyes showed so much, all at once - fear and anger and longing and disbelief. I pushed on.
"You're not a saint," I told him. "I won't argue with you on that. You're a sinner, Tate - through and through. But you're not a monster."
His lip twitched. "You're wrong," he whispered. But his heart was beating faster; I could practically hear it, thumping against the cage of his ribs.
My throat was dry, but I forced myself to keep talking.
"You ordered me to answer," I said. "So that's it. No, I'm not telling you what you want to hear. I'm telling you the opposite of what you want to hear, because it's what I believe."
He was so close now that our lips were almost touching.
"You don't understand half of what you think you do," he whispered. "And you've been a very bad girl."
Slowly, his fingers tightened around my throat. A stab of fear went through my chest. "Why?" I rasped. "What did I do?"
"You lied." His grip loosened, slightly. "You were bluffing. I can see it on your face. You didn't know. Until just now, you didn't know I murdered her."
I held his gaze, steady, although I felt like I might faint. "It doesn't matter," I said. "You're still my protector."
He closed the gap between us then, pressing his lips against mine in a searing kiss. When he pulled away, I could barely hold myself upright, my body shaking and my head and heart pounding with the force of it.
"Stop it," he snarled. "Stop playing this game."
"What game?" I asked, my voice sounding very far away.
He reached out and grasped my wrist, holding my quivering arm steady. "Your will isn't broken. It never will be. It's insulting when you act like there's a chance you could ever really want to be mine. You're trying to manipulate me, and I don't appreciate that." He let out a harsh breath, and his nostrils flared. "I need you to stop. That's an order."
"Fine," I said, pulling my shoulders back. "Have it your way, Tate."
He laughed darkly. "I always have it my way," he said. "Haven't you learned anything by now?"
"Apparently not." I watched him carefully.
"Now," he said. "Autumn. The real one, not the shadow that pretends to submit to me. Tell me what you think of a man who kills his lover in cold blood."
Tears were gathering again, and I couldn't stop them. All I could think about was Birdy and his gun and the choice he'd given me, the impossible choice, and how I wasn't strong enough to stop him.
I wasn't stupid. I knew that Birdy would've killed them both, no matter what. He just wanted to put me through a special kind of hell. Deeper and darker than the hell of just watching your own parents die in front of you. He wanted to make sure that I felt responsible.
And it worked. No matter how much I knew, I could never quite accept it. Maybe, if I'd been able to make a choice, one of them would still be alive. Maybe I wouldn't be alone.
Tate was just staring at me.
"I think you had the courage to do what I couldn't," I whispered.
His grip around my wrist tightened. "What do you mean?"
"Birdy, when he..." I choked past a sob. "He didn't just kill my parents. He gave me a choice. One or the other. I couldn't. I..." Another sob escaped. "So he killed both of them."
Tate shook his head, angrily. "It doesn't matter," he insisted. "You know that, don't you?"
"Of course!" I shouted at him, wincing at the sound of my own voice. Tate didn't flinch. "And if you hadn't killed her, they would have tortured her to death in front of you. Does that make it any easier? Do you sleep any better at night?"
He let my arm go, shoving himself away from me in the same motion. "You're not like me," he snarled.
I just sat there, breathing heavily, tears streaming down my cheeks. He slumped back down in his seat, staring up at the ceiling, his face drawn with anguish and fury and regret.
I couldn't stand it anymore.
I had to say something.
"You're pathetic."
My tone was vicious. He stared at me, his eyes widening slightly.
"It's all bullshit," I shouted. His eyes flashed with anger, but he didn't move. "You're hiding behind a mask. You want absolution, but you can't face what you did. So your way of forgiving yourself is to decide that you can't help it. This is just who you are. But it doesn't work, does it? Because you know it's not true. You know you can do better. You're just afraid to."
One side of his mouth slowly curled up into a cold smile. "Don't provoke me," he said, softly.
"Someone needs to provoke you," I insisted, leaning forward. "How long do you think you can go on like this?"
He stood up quickly, took a few strides in my direction, but I didn't flinch, even though my body trembled.
"As long as I have to."
Tate disappeared up the stairs, and into darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Healing
Tate
Fuck, I was jealous.
I paced my room, aching to rip apart every book, every sheet, every piece of furniture, every article of clothing I owned. All of this anger had to go somewhere. It needed an outlet. I couldn't go on like this.
Can't go on like this
Go on like this...
Autumn's words echoed in my head. Her challenge. How long could I go on like this? I didn't know. I'd never concerned myself with the question. My life was a ticking time bomb, regardless. If Stoker didn't get me, someone like Birdy would. If that took too long, there was always booze and pills. I had no interest in living into middle age. What was waiting for me there?
More pain, more nightmares.
No. I was done.
Most days, I wasn't sure why I still clung to life so stubbornly. Yes, it was a defiance of Stoker, but why did it matter? Holland was dead. Charles would be dead soon. All of the rest of them would live and die, just the same as they would have before, regardless of what I did.
Autumn would miss me, but for how long? She might play dumb, but she must have noticed the way Joshua looked at her. It was all very sweet and innocent, on the surface, but I knew better. He might not be as deviant as me, but he certainly didn't want her for her scintillating conversation. Just like any other man on the planet, he wanted to own her body.
My vision went red when I thought about it. His fingers on her skin. If I were gone, there'd be nothing stopping him. Kissing her. Touching her. Fucking her.
With a snarl, I threw my whiskey against the wall and watched the priceless crystal shatter. The equally priceless liquor trickled down the wood, dripping on the carpet.
Fuck me.
I couldn't die. Not until I'd killed every other man on the planet, to ensure they wouldn't defile my Autumn.
Pressing the palms of my hands against my forehead, I tried to banish the insanity. My brain felt like it was tied in knots. You've had some crazy fucking impulses in your day, but this girl's pushed you right over the edge.
The Viper was tutting his disapproval, but more than that, he looked scared. I couldn't blame him.
I was scared too.
No matter what I thought of her moral character, Autumn had a certain courage that eluded me. I'd never met someone who'd dare speak to me that way, especially with her leg in a cast. Perhaps "recklessness" was the word. I suspected, when push came to shove, they weren't all that different.
I couldn't afford to be reckless. I was afraid of how I felt around her, the way she pushed me to lose control. I was afraid of my own heartbeat, and what it meant. Slow and steady for so long, just waiting to be snuffed out. Now, it raced when
she looked at me.
Remember what happened the last time you fell in love.
As if I could forget.
Joshua didn't come back.
Days bled into weeks bled into months. Autumn was very good on the crutches, and before long, she was doing simple chores again. I liked seeing her active, even if she still winced in pain.
Never once did I ask her where she put those pills. Never once did I ask for the key.
Never once did she have to hold me at gunpoint.
And I didn't visit her room. I didn't try to touch her. After the last time, I wasn't sure I could.
I still barely remembered it. The whole thing was like a nightmare, throbbing painfully in the back of my consciousness. It killed my libido, though my body tried to protest. I woke up ragingly hard every morning, my mind swirling with dreams and visions of Autumn come undone. But the moment I remembered the look of horror on her face, it all dissolved into disgust.
Even if she wanted me, I didn't think I'd be able to do it.
On the day her cast was meant to come off, I found her in her room. She was sitting in an armchair, good leg swinging, with a book open on her lap.
"You read Hungarian?" I asked her.
She looked up, smiling. "I think I'm getting the gist of it."
The air between us was thick with everything unasked and unspoken. But if I'd expected her eyes to go empty and cold, her smile to go hollow - now that she knew who I really was, down to the darkest thing I'd ever done - I was wrong.
Nothing could sever that thread between us.
Of course it can't. You warped her mind.
"It's time to take your cast off," I said, nodding at her leg. "Step into my office?"
She grinned. Gathering her crutches and hauling herself upright with impressive grace, she followed me down the stairs.
"It's too bad you never got the chance to be a doctor," she said. "You're good at it."
I didn't answer until we'd reached our destination. Accepting complements had never been a particular strength of mine.
"Better than no doctor, at any rate." I was willing to concede that.
