Oaths and Omissions (Monsters & Muses #3)(58)

It was the resistance.

The terror.

In that moment, she felt more like a stranger than the night we met, and I’ve been trying to reconcile that sensation—something vile and hollow—with the warmth I’ve otherwise experienced. It’s been utterly maddening, and I’d be lying if I said the juxtaposition hadn’t driven me over the edge of sanity once or twice since.

The problem with her is that I’ve known all along she would be trouble.

I just fear I’ve miscalculated what kind she’d be.





27





My hand slips as I lean over the canvas, and I catch the heel of my palm on the material, watching the large brush I’m holding drive right through it.

Sitting back on my heels, I blow out a long breath, trying to stabilize my emotions. If I let them snowball out of control, the urge to indulge becomes damn near impossible to manage.

Lifting my chin, I glance at the kitchen island across the room where Jonas stands, swiping on a tablet as he reconfigures the parameters on his security system.

He wears a disconcerted frown, his forehead wrinkled in the middle as he glares at the device. Not once does he glance up, or even look as if he’s tempted to.

Guilt boils in my chest along with every unspoken apology I owe him. My heart wants to say the words, to beg his forgiveness, but my brain is too damn stubborn.

Being wrong is embarrassing. It’s difficult. That’s why so many people double down on their mistakes instead of owning up to them; digging a hole in loose soil is much simpler than climbing out and filling it.

Growing up, Daddy never once admitted when he was in the wrong even though he so often was.

I didn’t see it back then.

Maybe I didn’t want to.

Mama and Daddy were the closest thing I had to friends, and seeing their true colors would’ve meant a very lonely existence for me.

Plus, when I went along with their mistakes, they liked me more. Gave me extra attention, because I would parrot whatever they wanted to hear. Whatever fit their narrative.

Eventually, you regurgitate the misinformation so much, and your credibility suffers. You go from child to pet, from respected to subhuman.

That’s why when Preston told Daddy about what I’d supposedly done, he didn’t believe me.

Called me a liar when I refuted the claims, and then made his own up about me that the media ran with. Because who doesn’t love a good train wreck?

I was Aplana Island’s favorite screwup for weeks. My face graced every front page, every online forum, every celebrity news channel. A shiny little toy for them to poke fun at and wonder how low I would go, and if I would drag the Primrose name down with me.

So, I ran. Fled the island and its scrutiny, much to Daddy’s dismay.

To him, fleeing meant admitting guilt, even though in his eyes I was already tainted.

But in Vermont, he couldn’t control me or the narrative. When I came back, I didn’t give him the chance to reclaim it, and yet here I am about to throw all of that away because I can’t fucking say two simple words.

Pulling the brush from the canvas, I let out a groan when it tears even more. The painting is completely ruined, and for some reason, it being beyond repair is my snapping point.

Picking the frame up, I get to my feet and scream. Frustration bleeds through my pores, covering me in hot goose bumps as I lift my knee and bring the canvas down over it, cracking it in half.

The wood frame splinters, though the canvas itself doesn’t do anything more until I tear it apart, ripping out the staples and throwing the broken, torn bits to the floor.

Chest heaving, I look across the room and find Jonas still staring at his tablet. Annoyance creeps up my spine, sliding between the vertebrae like soft tissue and shoving me into the kitchen. My hand whips out, yanking the device from his hands, and I throw it at the office doors.

Pressing his lips together, he steeples his fingers and drags his gaze up to mine. The blank expression reflecting back makes me distraught, and I grip the edge of the island to keep from reaching for the knife block and stabbing him.

Wouldn’t want to prove his theory about me being murderous. The man’s ego is already the size of fucking Texas.

“Feel better?”

“No,” I snap, smacking the countertop. “No, I don’t feel better. Do you realize how fucking rude it is to cold shoulder someone?”

His blink is lazy. “Is it as rude as beating them over the head with a rock?”

“Worse.”

“Ah. Worse.” He shifts, leaning back against the kitchen sink, folding his arms over his chest. The veins in his forearms bulge, his pecs jumping beneath his Henley. “Do explain, love.”

Why is he so fucking calm all the time?

Everything he does and says, every reaction he has is met with a particular precision, and while logically I make out that it’s probably a very useful skill for his job, the side of my brain driven by anxiety and chaos hates it.

For once, I want to see him lose control.

“I just…” Clasping my hands together, I squeeze until my knuckles ache. “I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” He pushes off the counter and stalks toward me, not stopping until he’s standing directly in front of me. I have to crane my neck back to meet his violet eyes, laced with potent fury as they penetrate my soul. “Didn’t think there’d be consequences for your actions?”