Coldhearted (9781311888433)

by Matthews, Melanie

  Tristan saw to it on a regular basis that she lived a life of misery because all he’d ever known was misery. Love to him meant submission and control. It was an unequal partnership that thrived on servitude and obedience.

  Tristan Lockhart wasn’t a ghost. He was a demon.

  Mason stirred awake, blinked his eyes a few times, and then reached out for Edie, but discovered that she wasn’t beside him. He scanned the room and found her sitting, fully dressed.

  He sat up. “What’s wrong?” The fading light of the day was shining on his bare chest through the open window. It illuminated his rapidly beating heart. “Edie? What is it? Do you regret what we did? Was it too soon? I’m sorry if I pushed you. Please, I didn’t mean to force you. I-I love you.”

  She remained speechless, her throat drier than the Sahara.

  Mason threw off the covers, realized that he was naked, quickly got dressed, and then crouched in front of her, gingerly placing his hand on her quaking knee.

  “Edie, baby? I love you. I’m sorry. Did I…did I hurt you? I tried to be gentle. Please, talk to me.” Pools of water were collecting around his sad, confused eyes. “Edie? Please say something. Anything.”

  She stifled the urge to sob like a baby and swallowed, so she could lubricate her throat to talk. “I don’t want to see you anymore,” she said in a robotic, programmed voice without emotion. It was easier that way. Just a little bit easier. “I don’t love you,” she continued lying. “I never have. Now go and I never want to see you again.”

  The tears that he’d been holding back now fell. She saw the panic on his face; his sorrow was fully exposed. Hers was concealed behind a mask that was slowly beginning to crack under pressure. Mason needed to leave, before she retracted everything that she’d said, putting his life in danger.

  But Mason remained, crouched in front of her. Then he growled and pushed off from his feet, launching into the air. He spun around the room with a determined look.

  “Tristan, you sick, sorry, sadistic, punk-ass bastard, I know you’re behind this! You’ll never win, you know that?! You’ll never have her! She’s mine!” Mason whirled and grabbed her arms, lifting her up from the chair. He was hurting her. “Edie?!” He shook her once, then twice, as he held her up with his strength, her feet hovering above the ground. “Edie, don’t listen to him! I KNOW YOU LOVE ME!”

  He sensed her distress and lowered her safely to the ground, letting go. She rubbed at her arms, trying to massage the wounds that he’d given her in his frantic rage.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized, stricken at his behavior.

  He reached out to comfort her, and even though she wanted him to, she retreated; one, she was afraid that he’d hurt her again; and two, she needed to keep up the pretense that she didn’t love him and didn’t want his touch.

  He withdrew his hand. “Please, Edie, I’m so sorry, but I know you’re lying. I know it. I know you love me. It’s him, isn’t?” he asked through clenched teeth. “He’s making you do this. Why? Has he threatened to hurt me or someone else? Don’t give in to him, Edie! That’s what he wants! Do you want him to win? Are you ready to give up? Please, don’t do this! We can fight him, together! We’ll find a way. Please, baby, please don’t do this to me. I can’t live without you.” The last came out as an anguished whisper.

  She didn’t know how, but her mask of indifference stayed intact. No crying. She wasn’t even shaking, but she was cold, so very cold. It wasn’t just Tristan, hovering unseen behind her, his presence a reminder of what she had to do in order to save Mason’s life.

  She was cold because she had to be—coldhearted. This apathy traveled throughout her veins, stopping the course of blood and freezing it, as she transformed into someone who appeared alive, but was dead inside; this was the only way she was going to get through it all.

  “If you don’t leave right now, I’ll call the cops and have you arrested for trespassing, breaking and entering, and…rape.” She had to look away, staring at a blank, emotionless spot on the wall. “I’ll say you raped me.” She lifted up the sleeves of her sweater, exposing the quickly-forming bruises on her arms. “I’ll say I struggled, but you held me down, forced me to have sex with you. I was crying, begging for you to stop, but you didn’t care and didn’t stop.”

  These weren’t her words even though she’d spoken them. Tristan had whispered them in her ear. He was a genius when it came to verbal cruelty. She could only imagine with horror what he would be like once he became corporeal.

  He’d be a physical monster.

  She dared to look at Mason. His mouth was hanging open, shocked. She thought that she heard a glass slowly cracking, but then she realized what it really was: his heart was breaking.

  Wounded, Mason retreated from her, and in a choked-up voice, said, “I’m leaving. I won’t bother you again.” He went to her bedroom door and unlocked the knob, but he didn’t turn it, hesitating. He faced the door, refusing to look at her. “No matter what, I’ll always love you. Remember that, Edie. I’ll always love you,” he promised.

  He went to move, hesitated again, and then turned the knob, opening the door. He swung it wide, stepped over the threshold, hesitated again, and then walked away. He continued walking, until he was down the hall, past the kitchen, through the living room, and finally out the front door. She heard the engine in his truck turn over. It idled for a while and she knew that he was hesitating again, deciding what to do, if he should leave or not.

  After what seemed like forever, he put the truck in gear and headed toward the closed gates. Now it was her turn to hesitate, but she knew that she had to let him go, so she entered the code and watched as the gates fully opened.

  Now he didn’t hesitate, as he drove on through and away, out of her life, forever.

  She’d vowed to never let him go, but now she knew that her vows meant nothing.

  Chapter 25

  Tristan was standing behind Edie, as she stared out the living room window.

  From the reflection, she could see that he’d changed back into the outfit that she’d first met him in: black pants, and a white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the top, with the sleeves rolled up. She assumed that it’d been the outfit he’d died in, and couldn’t help feeling a tinge of sorrow, despite his cruel nature.

  Twilight had arrived. The sky was gray and blue, and a fresh batch of white snow was descending upon Grimsby. The mixture of colors created a melancholy picture. There wasn’t any happiness to be found in Grimsby. Despair reigned here, never to be overthrown.

  She felt a cold, solid hand on the small of her back. It traveled up her spine and rested on the back of her neck; a cold thumb began stroking her skin, massaging the area with forced tenderness.

  “Don’t mourn for Mason Fenwick,” he said. “Don’t mourn for mere peasants, weak and ignorant, as they are.” He ceased his hard strokes, but kept his hand on her neck. “You’re a queen, Edie, and queens don’t mix with gutter trash.”

  She turned and looked up at Tristan, finding one side of his face was no longer transparent, but solid, as was the hand cupping her neck.

  What Arianna had feared, now came to pass: Tristan was becoming corporeal.

  Yet his touch hadn’t killed her. Maybe he could control who lived and who died. Well, there was no maybe about it. He could.

  “So if I am a queen, then what does that make you? The court jester?” she asked sarcastically.

  His cold hand tightened around her neck but not enough to hurt her. “I’m the King, my sweet, and queens, whether they like it or not, follow commands. Or face execution,” he threatened.

  It was a hollow threat, she knew. If Tristan killed her, now, she’d become a prisoner in her house, and he would too. Even though she didn’t see with her own eyes the bond between them, she sensed it. They were attached, and the line was so strong, it could never be broken. Unseen forces had brought them together, and those same forces could tear them apart. But she didn’t see this happening anytime soon.r />
  Tristan had been right: I’m yours and you’re mine.

  When she spoke these words to him, with her hand cupping his cold, solid cheek, his lapis lazuli eyes widened in bewilderment. He smiled, sweetly, and shifted his cold lips to kiss her palm that lay against his cheek. The sensation chilled her to the core, but she fought off shivering. Encouraged, he trailed cold fingertips along her face, making his way under her chin, where he tilted her head up, so that her lips were ready for his descending mouth. She waited until their lips almost touched, and then she slapped his face—hard. His head whipped to the side from the blow, and his jaw clenched, as he stared away from her, rage building up inside him.

  Only the side of his face and the hand gripping her jaw with fierce strength were solid. The rest of him was transparent and she stifled her fear to prevent him from completing the transition. She was more angry than afraid and that worked to her advantage. He remained as he was, ghostly and frustrated. When he finally turned to face her, his eyes stared into hers with absolute hatred. He kept up the pressure on her jaw. She expected it to snap off and break at any moment, but as she waited for the inevitable, he surprised her by letting go. She couldn’t help it and reached up to massage away the soreness. The bone seemed intact, but for how long, she didn’t know. Tristan’s anger was boundless.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked in a cold, clinical tone.

  “Yes,” she admitted, and winced from the pain of moving her jaw to speak.

  “Good,” he said, and then touched the cheek where she’d hit him. “You hurt me too.”

  “Good,” she mimicked in the same hard tone that he’d used. “Now if you’re done ruining my life for one day, I’d like to go to bed and weep all night.”

  She didn’t wait for a response and turned, leaving Tristan in the living room. She passed by her uncle in the hallway as she went to her room.

  He exhaled a trail of smoke. “Is your boyfriend still here?” The question was one of curiosity, not judgment.

  “No, and he’s not my boyfriend anymore.” She was trying not to cry and run into her uncle’s arms for comfort.

  He lowered his cigarette. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, but I thought I heard you talking to him.”

  She shook her head. “I wasn’t talking to anyone.” She looked over her uncle’s shoulder to see Tristan, narrowing his cold eyes at her. “No one at all,” she emphasized his nothingness to her.

  Uncle Landon was confused, furrowing his brow, as he turned to see what (or more precisely who) she was looking at. By the time he’d turned back around, she was already down the hall. She went inside her room, closed and locked the door. It was a clear indication to anyone that she didn’t want to be bothered. Tristan, of course, ignored this, and being a ghost, entered her room, as if he’d been teleported magically inside.

  “So I’m no one?” He seemed hurt, staring at her sadly.

  He seemed to be waiting for her to rescind her earlier claim.

  For a second, perhaps a millisecond, she felt sorry for him, but then she remembered who he was and what he’d done. Her sorrow quickly vanished.

  “That’s right,” she confirmed. “You’re no one.”

  She ignored his gaze, as she went inside the bathroom, not bothering to close the door. She showered, brushed her teeth, and changed into her red flannel pajamas. When she went back into her bedroom, he was sitting in the plum leather chair. She ignored him still, slid into bed, and turned off the lamplight. She was bathed in darkness, except for a sliver of moonlight that shone through the open curtains of her window. She hadn’t planned on crying, but she did, as soon as she inhaled Mason’s scent, still fresh on the bed sheets. It was evidence that he’d been there, the remembrance of what they’d shared, the love they’d expressed. This was when she really started to cry, full on sobs, burying her face into the pillow that he’d rested his head against.

  She closed her eyes briefly, wiping her tears away, and then widened them in astonishment. The lamplight had been mysteriously turned back on and she could see that she wasn’t alone. Mason was lying next to her; he was naked from the waist up, the covers hiding his lower half. He was on his back, unaware of her presence, because he was kissing another girl: Rochelle. She was on top of him, naked too, and he was running his fingers through her dirty blonde hair. He told her that he loved her. Rochelle said the same, and then kissed him wildly, savagely. He reciprocated her fervor, and then flipped her over, so that she lay underneath him.

  He slowly turned his head and looked at Edie, as Rochelle began kissing his neck. He winked, and then smirked, showing off those dimples. “You were good, but Rochelle’s better. She was always better than you. She knows how to please me. You, well, you’re no one, Edie. You’re nothing. Why don’t you die and join your parents? No one here wants you. You’re nothing.” Mason looked away from her and shifted again so that Rochelle was on top of him. His hands roamed all over her body, as he planted wet, noisy kisses along her neck.

  Now it was Rochelle’s turn to mock. She turned to face Edie, her eyes half-closed, moaning in delight at Mason’s expertise. “Poor, poor, Edie,” she said in false sincerity, and then sneered. “You’re such a loser. You’ll always be a loser. You know when Mason was with you, he was thinking of me the entire time. Think back, Edie, don’t you remember him saying my name?” She giggled at something Mason was doing under the covers. “That’s right. He’s never gotten over me. He loves me, not you. You’re nothing, Edie. You’re no one.”

  “No one, no one, no one, no one, no one...”

  This cruel melody played over and over in her head, as Mason and Rochelle carried on right next to her. It’s not real. She dared to reach out and touch them, to prove it, but she made contact and jerked her hand back, horrified. She had felt them, warm and solid.

  “No,” she said faintly.

  She moved so quickly that she fell out of the bed and on the floor. She looked up to see Tristan staring down at her, still seated in the leather chair.

  “Bad dream?” he asked with false concern.

  She quickly sat up and raised her head to see that her bed was empty. Mason and Rochelle were gone. Or rather they’d never been there to begin with. Yet the lamplight was still on.

  She stood up and turned to see Tristan, smirking at her. “I was never dreaming. You got into my mind,” she accused, “planted that…ugly scene.” She held out her hands. “And for what, Tristan?” she said, using his name before him for the first time. “Because I said you were no one?”

  “You hurt my feelings,” he said with an edge to his voice, smirk gone. “You know how much I love you. How can you be so cruel?” He sounded mad and disingenuously sad.

  She got mad too and bent over, her face in his; the area just below his solid eye twitched, in fear or surprise, she didn’t know. “You call me cruel?” she said acidly. “Take a good look in the mirror buddy because you’re the very definition of cruel. And I don’t love you. I’ll never love you. Get it, ghost boy? You can’t make someone love you. You’ve never loved because you don’t know how to love. Love is compassion. Love is mercy. Love is putting others before your own needs. You embody none of these traits, so don’t you dare try to convince me that you love me. I’ll never, ever buy what you’re selling.”

  She refused to move her face even when she saw his lips move toward her cheek. He kissed her chastely. It was a cold kiss. The only one he knew how to give.

  “You’re so warm,” he said softly, as if lamenting that he weren’t. “I’ll leave you to sleep in peace. Sweet dreams, Edie.”

  She closed her eyes briefly and in that short time, he’d vanished. She didn’t know where he’d gone, but he wasn’t in her room. She knew this because she wasn’t freezing to death.

  She stared at her vacant bed. She couldn’t sleep there, knowing what’d really happened and what’d been planted inside her mind. As a child, she’d been afraid to sleep in her bed for fear of imaginary monsters, so she’d crawled in
to her parents’ bed, comforted by their presences. But her parents were dead and she wasn’t a child anymore. Yet she needed the comfort of family and Uncle Landon was all she had left.

  So she went to his bedroom door and knocked on it.

  “Come in,” he said.

  She opened the door to the smell of cigarettes and coffee hitting her full force, but it was overwhelming and weirdly comforting at the same time. She reckoned that she felt this way because it reminded her of Uncle Landon; he was no longer a stranger to her; he was family.

  He was sitting up on his bed, fully dressed, reading from a thick stack of papers. She could barely see his room. The main light was off and only the lamplight next to his bed was on. Although it seemed that his room was smaller than hers. She wondered if her room had originally been his, sans all the lace and purple. She remembered that it’d been her mom’s favorite color.

  “Hey, what’s up?” he asked, looking at her over the top of his reading glasses.

  She was nervous, but went ahead, and asked, “Can I sleep with you tonight?”

  Uncle Landon’s eyes widened, shocked. He took off his glasses and let the thick stack of papers that was being held on by a binder clip slide from his hand.

  “Um, well, why?” he asked nervously.

  “I’m sad.” It was the truth without telling him the whole story.

  “Is this about Mason? Your breakup?” he surmised correctly.

  She nodded, and then said, “I don’t want to talk about it. I just…I don’t want to sleep in my bed tonight.”

  If he suspected that she and Mason had slept together in her bed, he didn’t say anything. Instead he just nodded and slid over toward the edge of his bed, giving her plenty of room.

  “Okay, hop on in.”

  She did, under the covers, and then stared up at the ceiling, after she’d settled in. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her uncle adjust his glasses and resume what he’d been doing, before she’d arrived.