Echo(20)

“Do it.” My words, an offering of atonement. “I’ve lost everything, and out of all that, you’re the only one I would have given up everything for just to have one last touch.” His grip weakens but his hand remains firmly in place, and when I watch our breaths unite in small clouds of vapor between our lips, realization crystallizes.

My God, he’s alive.

Letting go of his wrist, I reach up and run my hand along his stubbled jaw, and the comfort in the touch flays me entirely. A disgustingly raw sob erupts from my bleeding heart. I want to crawl inside of his skin and drown myself in his blood. I want to swim in his marrow.

“Don’t f*cking touch me,” he barks, wrenching my hand off of him.

I’m a mess though, unable to contain my emotions as they pour out of me. “I thought you were dead. For weeks I’ve been mourning you—”

“Get the f*ck off my property, bitch.”

His words cut me off. I shouldn’t be stunned at them, but the snarl in his tone is startling, and I quickly shut my mouth. He then grabs ahold of my jaw, forcing my chin up as he looks down on me, and I don’t recognize the devilry in his eyes. He pisses his words, “You’re nothing more than a shit-stain, so f*ck off. I’m done with you, understand?”

“Please . . . don’t.”

“Nod your little head and tell me you understand.”

The urgency to explain everything to him is powerful, but I know he’d never hear my words with the hatred in him right now, so I obey with a nod. “I understand.”

He lets go, not giving me a second look as he turns away and gets back into the SUV. I look at his beautiful face through the windshield. I never want to take my eyes off him, and it kills to know that I have to. He glares at me with daggers as I feel tears running down my cheeks.

“I’m so sorry,” I say even though I know he can’t hear me and then turn my back on my prince that I so selfishly molded into this monster.

Walking away, I’m confused. There are a million feelings and reactions, and I have no clue which one to grab on to. I don’t know how to begin to process the fact that I just saw my angel of death in the flesh. I felt his heat, smelled him, heard him.

It was real.

I see Pike all the time. I even talk to him. But there’s never a smell, never a temperature to his touch. It’s how I know the difference between hallucinations and reality. But this is real. He’s alive, but at what cost? He doesn’t resemble the Declan I knew. That man was firm, yes, but he had light in him that shone through his emerald eyes. But this Declan . . . he’s hard and cold, and it’s all my fault. I knew pushing him to kill Bennett would destroy him, change him, take away his pure spirit.

He looks as worn as I do, his frame more slender, a lack of color in his skin. I ache to touch him, taste him, make him see that this was all a terrible mistake. That loving him was my saving grace. Make him understand how everything changed and changed from a place of honesty I never knew I held inside of me.

How am I supposed to live in the same world as him when he hates me so much?

How do I right the wrongs of my past?

How do I find a hope worth living for when my one hope would rather me dead than alive?





TORMENT IS THE deep well I bathe in daily. It covers me entirely as I sink beneath the surface, feeling its particles soak into the pores of my decrepit skin. Seeping through me, it consumes, wallows, and dwells so I can feel every ounce of its torturous abuse.

Black is the color that stains my insides. Declan used to color me in vibrancy, but that’s when he loved me for the lie he believed I was. I’m a sick woman. Deceit paints my rotten soul, and he now sees me for what I am.

How could I destroy a man as wonderful as Declan?

He was a good man, a loving man. His touch was firm yet tender. But now, after seeing him a couple days ago, he’s so different. Callous and filled with venom. Worst of all is knowing that I did that to him. I’m the culprit. I’m the cause. I touched him and turned him into a monster.

But even as a monster, I want him. I’ll take him in any form I can because I’m so thankful he’s alive. That Pike didn’t kill him. Glory and joy somehow illuminate this bleak heart of mine and rejoice in the flesh and blood of his existence.

Where do I go now? What do I do when all I want is what I know he’ll refuse?

Another touch, kiss, smell, taste. But once I get it, I know I’ll want more. It’ll never satisfy, never be enough to feed the hunger I have for him. My soul is starved and he’s my sacrament.