It may not seem like much. But somehow, to me, it is everything.
“Everything except freedom,” I add. “Everything except love.”
“Love.” Tristan’s tone cracks on the word as though it’s made of poison.
To my surprise, he releases his grip on me. He backs away a little as though he’s just realizing something.
“Love,” he says again, testing it on his lips. “All this time… Has this been about him?”
Him.
He spits out the word.
My expression doesn’t change. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His eyes seem to glow in the dark. I know it’s my imagination, but right now, it looks real.
“Cillian O’Sullivan,” he says in a dangerously low voice. “Is he the son of a bitch you were running to?”
“I haven’t heard that name in thirteen years,” I stammer, trying to pretend like it has no effect on me.
“Answer me.”
“I have no idea where he is.”
“Maybe not,” Tristan acknowledges. Then his face splits into a sickly smile. “But I do.”
He lunges towards me again. I close my eyes just as his hand squeezes around my throat.
In the darkness of my mind’s eye, I see a man with blond hair. Blue eyes. A devil-may-care smile.
It’s pathetic to be in love with a memory, after all this time.
But it’s all I have. It’s my life preserver. It’s the one dream that’s kept me going through the endless nightmare.
I don’t want to discover what will happen once it no longer exists.
Seeing Cillian today made that dream look shakier than ever. He hadn’t acknowledged me. Not a trace of recognition in his eyes.
But my heart is quick to make excuses for him. Quick to preserve the fantasy for as long as possible.
Maybe he didn’t really see me.
Maybe he thought he was dreaming.
Maybe it wasn’t him at all.
Tristan’s hand redoubles its grip on my throat and I wince against the pain.
“Open your eyes,” he orders. “Look at me.”
I sigh and do as he says.
“Tell me, Saoirse—what did it feel like when he was inside you?”
My eyes go wide.
But I’m sure I haven’t misheard him.