Page 48 of Bittersweet Revenge

“Do you mind if we speak in the car? I'm not a fan of an audience,” she said. I followed her eyes to the group of vipers who usually trailed behind Aleksandra.

“Ah, yes, but first let's give them something to write home about.” I gave her a small smile. The little conspiratorial one she gave me back made me feel lighter. I leaned down, giving her a sweet kiss. I didn't have to do this, but I wanted to, like I always did when she was near.

I usually had a primal need, a desire to conquer her, but also, more often now, I felt a wave of tenderness I didn't really understand. It was not something I ever received or gave and yet...it was there, growing.

I lifted my head. She let out a little sigh, her gray eyes looking stormier and steelier after this kiss. This was one of those moments that recomforted me in my weakness, because I knew that, even if it was on a much lesser level, I affected her too.

I opened the passenger door and gestured her in.

She cleared her throat, shaking her head a little. “Yes, sure, okay, thanks.”

I closed the door behind her and couldn't help but grin like an idiot. Maybe I affected her a bit more than I thought.

“So, what did you want to talk about?”

She nodded. Opening her bag, she got out a leather-bound notebook. It wasn’t really something I’d expected. She proffered it to me, her face full of apprehension as if she was giving me her most precious belonging.

“Okay…” I trailed off. Taking it from her, I rested it on my lap.

“This is my mother’s journal.”

“Oh.” I looked down at the notebook on my lap with renewed interest. “Did Archibald give it to you?”

She shook her head. “No, I don't know who gave it to me. It was just waiting for me in a brown envelope. This -” she pointed at the notebook on my lap - “should be proof enough that I didn’t try to kill myself. This is also why I know my mom is not the homewrecker you seem to think she was.”

That was a lot of information to have at once. The journal could contain lies, I thought, but then what would be the point of lying in one’s own journal?

“Does it talk about my parents?”

“It does a bit.” She grimaced, cocking her head to the side. “It did more.”

“What do you mean?”

She looked at me with uncertainty. She wasn't sure how much she wanted to reveal. I wish I could blame her, but I would feel the same if I was in her shoes. Giving me information would give me ammunition. Before that she needed to decide how much she trusted me, which considering our history couldn’t be much.

“I…” She sighed as she turned to look ahead, breaking eye contact. “I’d ripped out some pages concerning your family, I’d posted them to you the day I’d left.”

“You– I never got them.”

“I know that now.”

“Why did you?” My mind was reeling. This girl never did anything I expected. Why couldn’t she be predictable? It would avoid me being conflicted all the damned time.

She looked down at her hands, fidgeting her fingers.

I rested my hand on top of hers to stop her without thinking of the effect her soft skin always had on me. How a mere touch caused my chest to tighten so much it made it hard to breathe.

“Esmeralda, why did you send those pages to me?” I asked again.

She rested her head against the headrest, then turned toward me. “Because I was conflicted about leaving, because I thought it might make you hate me less.” She let out a humorless laugh that broke the little bit of the heart I had left. “What an epic failure, right?”

I opened my mouth to tell her that I didn’t hate her, not even a little, not even when I had tried so hard to. I was feeling angry, hurt, betrayed…all of this in one, but no hate, which was quite ironic as, before her, hate had been my most constant feeling. Against my parents, myself, the world… but not her. Never her.

“I don’t hate you.”

She arched an eyebrow, looking at me with incredulity.

“I don’t, but that might be a conversation for another time. So, what about your mother’s journal?”

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