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“And in the end, we were all humans, drunk on the idea that love, only love, could heal our brokenness.”
-Christopher Poindexter
He tapped the top of the chair with his fingers, a scar on the back of his hand going up his arm. “So you know something about me, and if I marry you, I’ll get the secret and get you?”
Zephyr kept her eyes steady on him even as her fingers gripped her dress.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry I forgot you,” he told her quietly, and Zephyr soaked up the moment, his sincerity, his softness, his touch.
“It’s not your fault.”
“We’ll make this work?”
It was the first time he asked, and not told her, to be back.
The ugly was old insecurity, one she’d fought off for years and thought had laid to rest, an insecurity that maybe she wasn’t enough. Maybe, she'd never be enough. Maybe, anything she did wouldn't make a difference. She loved too much, trusted too easily, got hurt too often, and maybe she needed to harden herself. But she would lose the essence of who she was if she did, and so she never did.
“I cut the hand of a man who touched your hair, Zephyr. What do you think I'm going to do to one you move on with?”
Her breath caught.
She hadn’t anticipated this.
“I might not remember you,” he whispered, his lips almost at hers. “But you’re my wife now. Mine. And I’d bathe this whole city in blood before I let you change that.”
She held his gaze, the moment suspended between them, the invitation, the plea, the call clear as she closed her eyes, waiting, praying, hoping that he didn't leave her cold again, that he closed the distance and restarted her heart where it lay struggling in her chest.
“You shouldn’t have done that, Zephyr.”