Slowly, I stand on shaky legs and when he reaches me, he swallows me up in his arms. Holding the shaky, cold frame of me so tight, I might burst.
“What’s going on? What happened? Is it the baby?” he asks, and a lump fills my throat. I wrap my arms around his warm, hard body. A wall of muscles.
They couldn’t protect us this time.
And I had to choose.
I had to choose you, Bronson, over our boy. I couldn’t bear the thought of you in prison for most of your life.
He’s going to hate me soon, and so I can’t bring myself to tell him right away. Nuzzling into his chest, seeking comfort in the broad wall of his body, I fist his shirt with desperation, sobbing tearlessly against him.
I breathe him in, trying to bank the scent of my first love into my memories.Forever.I wish I could bottle it. Bottle Bronson Butcher. The way he makes me feel so precious. Beautiful. Interesting. Unique. The one for him. And the way he accepts all my crazies.
Thatiswhat love is.
He pushes me out from his chest. His green-blue irises whirl with concern and discomfort and something else, something dangerous, a brewing storm of volatility. He searches me, every inch of skin, mapping my cracked lips and ballooned eyes. He lifts his hand to stroke down my face, forcing me to close my eyes, exhaling heavily. His warm fingers soothe the dry cold skin that is spotted in broken blood vessels. “What. Happened?”
“Just hold me,” I squeak out and he pulls me back into his loving embrace, holding me so tightly. As though he alone can protect me from every darkness in the world.
But he can’t.
“My dad found my diary,” I croak, my voice fucking shuddering out between choppy sobs.
He pushes me out in front of him again, gripping my shoulders with a protective firmness. “What does that mean?”
I look straight into his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
His brows pinch. “What?”
“He knows what you did?”
“What does he know?”
“You killed that boy,” I say, my throat raw from crying, my voice a hoarse, raspy melody that hurts to hear. “I’m so sorry, I wrote about it, Bronson. I’m so sorry. He said he was going to go to the police.”
His shoulders relax on a big exhale, and I don’t understand why he’s suddenly so relieved. “Fucking hell, baby. Don’t do that to me,” he chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Is that all? Fuck. Jimmy owns the police, baby. Don’t stress. Let him go to the police. He’ll end up in a lot of trouble.”
I freeze.
All the blood now rushing from my body, leaving me a weak, useless excuse of a human. “No.”
He smiles at me, and I can’t stand it. “Baby, I thought something happened toyou.To the baby.” He pulls me against his chest once more and holds me as I start to break down all over again, realising I let them suck our baby from inside me. For nothing.
For nothing.
The truth like a sinking hole inside me, drawing into its depths the promises, future, the love and laughter, all the happiness we ever had.
“He made me!” I wail against his chest, clinging to his shirt, fingers aching through the intensity of my grasp. “He made me!”
He tenses beneath my hands.
Air leaves me in a rush, and I can no longer draw any in - my lungs paralysed. I press my head harder into him, hiding my face. His hands come down and circle my wrists, prying me from his shirt. As my fingers release it, I curl in on myself, shaking and standing alone without his warmth.
He takes one step backwards, putting further space between us, the tether of our love stretching the distance. I look up at him, finding his eyes are so still, so wide, and it’s terrifying. It’s as though he is afraid to blink.
“Do. What?” he asks, his voice low with warning.
“He said you’d go away,” I admit, my voice shaking out as the tether between us starts to fray. “For half your life, if I didn’t.”