Violence (Antihero Inferno #3) - Lily White Page 0,67
sound that I bleed to hear it. “Just do it anyway.”
“Why?”
“So I can breathe for once,” he whispers, his voice a jagged shard that slices me bone deep. “Please. Just let me breathe.”
I can’t say yes immediately, can’t feel the restraint and tension in his body and not remember what it felt like when they left, the nights I spent crying until I dried out, the sound of my phone ringing that I left unanswered.
He killed me when he wouldn’t give up, and he destroyed me when he finally did.
Worse than the ringing was the silence that followed. And I spent the next nine years fighting to forget him.
All for Ezra.
All for Damon.
All because I refused to come between them.
The twins needed each other more than they needed me, and I would break my own heart a million times over before I would ever threaten their bond.
It appears nothing has changed. One night in and I know they are already fighting. Not in a way most would expect it. I just happen to know them well enough that I can recognize the looks they give each other and the unspoken warnings.
Still, I give in.
Only because I’m selfish and want this as much as him.
“Okay,” I finally say, and I feel every muscle in his body relax, hear the long sigh as he releases a breath, melt when his arms hold me tighter and his heart pounds against my back.
There’s no telling how long we lay together without moving, without speaking, without acknowledging that what we we’re doing goes against everything we agreed to. But we do it anyway. Somehow together, but somehow apart.
“What do you want to know?” he finally asks, the soft, deep note of his voice breaking into the silence.
He doesn’t have to explain what he means. What Ezra is offering is something I’ve always wanted.
My mind races back to a dark room, an opened door, the small amount of light that bled through to show me the first clue that the twins were in trouble.
“The handprint,” I whisper back, an old thread of fury unraveling inside me to remember how angry that mark had been.
His arms tighten even more, and I fight to breathe. Not that he’s choking off my ability, but because I know he’s holding onto me to keep from sliding into the memory.
Minutes pass, tense and thick, but I wait patiently for Ezra to find a way to tell me his story without betraying Damon by telling his.
He speaks slowly when he explains, “I was being held back. Being forced to watch-“
Not finishing the thought, his voice trails off, the rage inside me rolling and expanding until my flames flicker out to lick at the memory he can’t bear to admit.
Patience...
It’s what I have to give him.
Even if I want to tear him open and examine every thought just so I know how bad it was.
A deep breath pours out of him.
“I was being forced to watch something. And I fought so hard that the person holding me caused that bruise. I was screaming until my throat was burning, but they wouldn’t let me go. It took four of them to hold me in place. That’s how hard I fought. I was on my knees, trying to push to my feet. Trying to crawl forward. Trying to do anything I could to make it stop.”
I die a little more with each word he speaks, bite my tongue to keep from demanding more, and close my eyes to stand with him in whatever room he was being held in when that hand left a mark on his skin.
And then I’m crying.
With only that small piece.
The tiny amount of information.
I’m sobbing as he holds me in place.
I guess that’s what happens when you hold a person so deep in your heart. You consume them and make them part of you. You share their pain. You experience their trauma. You choke on their truth because it’s impossible to swallow.
I’m standing in that room with him, watching, and the entire time, he’s kissing my cheek, his lips chasing each tear that falls, his soft voice comforting me when it should be the other way around.
“And now you feel sorry for me,” he breathes out, shame edging his words.
Shaking my head, I attempt to deny that’s what I’m feeling. I know he’s strong. I know he survived. It’s just that I can’t stand the circumstances of his life and the way they shaped him.