Page 143 of I Will Break You
My throat tightens, and I swallow hard, trying not to think about what horror he wants me to dredge up from the recesses of my mind.
“I was writing my ghost romance, and some men broke into the house. Then you stepped out from the cupboard under the stairs and killed them with an ax.”
“They’re not dead.”
“But I saw…” I shake my head. “Xero, what’s happening? How are you alive?”
“Didn’t I tell you we would be together after the execution?”
“You did, but I thought you meant in spirit.”
Looking at Xero for too long is painful. He’s too pale, too perfect, too fucking pretty. The photos didn’t do him justice, and neither did that mugshot. He’s like a statue come to life, with a light dusting of platinum stubble that adds to his otherworldly allure.
His intense stare pierces my soul, making it impossible to believe he’s real. I have to drop my gaze, overwhelmed by his sheer presence.
I’ve had a psychotic break, brought on by an excess amount of stress. That’s how Mrs. Mancini described my condition when I pushed Mr. Lawson off the roof garden.
Myra’s mom said that I had been one of many of his young victims and couldn’t cope with the abuse. The defense she and Dr. Saint concocted was that I’d been driven insane by the forced abortion. When he trapped me in the roof garden to rape me so soon after a traumatic event, my body reacted in self-defense.
Maybe it’s happening again, except I’m imagining Xero.
“Amethyst.” He cups my cheek. “Are you still with me?”
“Yes?” I whisper.
“Did you forget last night?”
“Um… Do you mean the graveyard?” I ask.
“What else do you remember?” he asks.
“You took me to the old rectory for a bath.”
He nods, those pale eyes brightening. “Good girl. What else?”
“Waking up here with a pounding headache?”
He sighs, seeming disappointed. Oddly enough, the part of me that always wanted to please Xero aches for a way to earn his praise. I already told him I have gaps in my memory. What the hell did I miss that could be so important?
“I explained everything before putting you to bed,” he says.
“I don’t remember that.” I peer at him from the corner of my eyes. “Sorry.”
“Eat your breakfast.” He places a tray on my lap.
I shake my head. “No thanks. I’m not hungry.”
“Did I give you a choice?” He grabs the back of my neck and twists my head toward a tray containing cereal, buttered toast, and coffee. “Eat.”
My heart pounds. Memories of weeks of terror float to the surface of my mind like flush-resistant turds. Xero can’t be trusted. This breakfast is just another torture tactic.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” I say. “How are you still alive?”
“Eat, and I’ll explain.”
“Untie my hands, and I’ll eat.”
He laughs, the sound bitter. “And if you turn on me, I’ll have to knock you out again.”