Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
"Ivy."
"Take me home." She turns away, refusing to look at me.
I feel out of sorts as I untie my cloak and drape it over her body, securing her in a cocoon as I cradle her against my chest. She doesn't protest when I carry her into the courtyard and back to the waiting car, but she still won't look at me either.
As soon as I place her in the back seat, she slides as far away as she can get, turning away from me as silent sobs begin to wrack her body.
It bothers me more than I ever could have anticipated to see her this way. I wanted her tears but not her complete destruction. Or didn’t I?
"Tell me what happened," I plead.
She barely turns to me, her jaw set, anger vibrating off her.
"What happened?" she asks incredulously. "Are you serious? You are what happened, Santiago! You pushed me past the point of what my body could handle with that display and then the mask. You knew exactly what you were doing. Don't act like you don't."
It occurs to me then that she's talking about her vestibular issues. And of course, in the back of my mind, I assumed there would be some limitations to what she could handle. But I didn't realize the severity until I saw it firsthand.
I wasn't thinking straight. But I should have been.
Dr. Chambers sent me her medical records as I requested. Not just his notes, but her entire file from all her previous visits to doctors within The Society. I read about her problems with balance and coordination. The vertigo. The stress-induced flares. Her father had taken her to the doctor, but he had done little else to help her after her diagnosis. There were things that could have been done. Things that should have been done. And now I am left to wonder why didn't they do them? Why didn't he hire the best physical therapist that money could buy to help her? Why didn't he seem to care enough about his daughter to make that minimal effort for the benefit of her health?
"Ivy." I reach for her hand, and she shoves me away.
"Don't," she warns. "I don't want to hurt you, but if you touch me right now, I will fight. I will scratch and claw until I draw blood if only to prove you are human."
Her words sting more than they should. It isn't like me to take demands from anyone, let alone my enemy. But right now, in the dim light of the car, she looks less like my enemy and more like my prisoner. I recognize that solemn expression well because I have seen it many times in my own reflection. I thought this was what I wanted, but now that I have witnessed it in her, I understand I couldn’t have been more wrong.
My hand comes to rest on the seat between us. Close enough to feel the warmth of her body, but far enough away to feel the arctic chill taking over her.
Without a doubt, I have fucked up.
And I wish she could hear the thoughts so loud in my head. The words unspoken, too proud to fall from my lips.
I'm sorry for it. More so than I have ever been.
27
Ivy
He lifts me in his arms before my bare foot even touches the ground. The cloak he wrapped me in almost falls away, but he catches that, too, keeping it huddled around me. And when I try to push away from his hard chest, when I try to free myself of his grip, he only tightens his hold on me.
“Let me go, Santiago.”
“No.”
Marco opens the front door, and Santiago carries me in. I’m still shivering even though it’s warm in the house. The cold I feel is so deep inside me that even a raging fire wouldn’t touch it.
What he did tonight, that display, another very public humiliation and his utter lack of concern for my well-being? I don’t forgive him for that. And I don’t believe he cares about me. No, I’d sooner believe any concern was that maybe he’d gone too far and broken me. Killed me, even. Like he’s threatened to. He doesn’t want me dead yet. He hasn’t had his fill of torturing me just yet.
“Let me go!” I twist in his arms as he carries me past my bedroom and farther down the long corridor. I’m exhausted and weak, but I have to fight.
He doesn’t budge. My struggles don’t seem to impact him at all. He’s stone-faced as we head up into this darker part of the house.
“I hate you,” I hiss. I have to say it because I have to feel it. It’s the only thing I should feel after that.
At that, he glances down at me, but it’s too dark to read his eyes. It’s hard enough when it’s light.