Page 72 of Art of Sin

32greed

I allowmyself one month with him. To be… his. To gift my heart a freedom it’s never known. Cold feet seeking warmth in the morning. Limbs like puzzle pieces as we watch movies on the couch. Drowning ourselves in each other’s bodies, finding oxygen in a kiss.

We don’t talk about what’s happening between us, about love or the future. Perhaps we’re both merely repeating patterns of the past. Mine, the need to feel safe; his, the need to be needed. I don’t know. And to be honest, I don’t care.

But I do care that it’s becoming harder and harder to keep the vault in my mind from cracking open. I wake up often in the middle of the night, screams clogging my throat. He holds me, rocks me as I shudder and gasp.

The flashbacks are increasing in frequency, stronger and clearer than ever before. A side effect of my new life, no doubt, with a man who won’t let me hide. Who maps my scars with his lips and teeth and tongue, who commands my body and offers me equal dominion.

Our desire for each other is a closed circuit that excludes the world. That almost, almost,makes me forget.

This love is madness.

I let him comfort me because I’m weak. I don’t tell him about the dreams, avoid the worry and growing questions in his eyes. Even if I wanted to tell him, the guilt and horror of what I’ve done is too much to put into words. So is the dark future looming like an axe above my neck. The certain knowledge that we are on borrowed time.

Tick Tock.

Every day, I wake wondering if it will be my last—his last. If the new security system with its live, twenty-four-hour surveillance and patrol cars every half hour will be enough to stop that axe from falling.

Why am I doing this? Putting Gideon in danger?

Mama always said I was selfish. A dark soul.

I guess she was right.

* * *

The hardest partof being with Gideon is the blissful normalcy of something I feared I would never have—a romantic partnership based on mutual respect and transparency. I really thought that shit only happened in the movies.

Lord knows I didn’t have any promising role models growing up. But it’s more than the scars from my family’s severe dysfunction. Were it that alone and I might have come out okay in the end. Found some good therapy. Learned to process my emotions, build trusting relationships and own my vulnerability. Or whatever normal people do.

But that’s not all I endured. Not the end. And four years of my life don’t get magically erased because I want—or even deserve—a shot at happiness.

I haven’t told Gideon the truth, and it weighs on me and inside me, where it spreads like a rot. I’m a liar. The woman he wants? Another mask, another lie. He sees what he wants to see, just like I create the version of myself I think he wants.

Just like every—

man—

before—

him—

“What did that carrot ever do to you?”

The already-moving knife slams into the cutting board, leaving a pulverized orange mass in its wake. I blink at the mess in confusion and growing embarrassment.

“Oh my gosh. I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”

I drop the knife; it clatters on the counter, handle spinning toward the edge. I yelp and jump backward.

“Whoa.” Gideon reaches past me, moving the knife to a safe position above the board. “Someone’s twitchy tonight.”

“My feet are bare! I’m not down to be skewered.” At his immediate grin, I roll my eyes. “By a knife.”

Chuckling, he tucks loose hair behind my ear. “You really don’t have to cook, Deirdre. I don’t know why you’re putting this pressure on yourself.”

I meet his gaze for exactly one second before turning away to wash my hands. “I want to. It’s fine. I can do it.”

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