Page 184 of Poison Aches

“Why the hell are you crying?” I demand, feeling something strange take root in the pit of my stomach.

“Emmett…” the girl cries my name. The thing in my chest thumps hard. “I’m…” Her voice drowns out as she sobs.

I have no choice but to walk back to where she is. Still unable to hear her, I crouch down to her level, then lean in as closely as I can get to her.

“What?”

“I’m sorry!” she suddenly blurts.

“Huh?” Color me fucking confused. The girl is strange… stranger than anything I’ve ever encountered, but that’s a topic for another day. “You’re sorry?”

“I am, Emmett. Please forgive me!”

Why would I— Then it hits me.

Anger ignites in my blood with a vengeance. I stand up quickly and stare down at her.

“If you’re begging me to forgive you for what you did that night, then you can fucking forget It and just wait for your punishment. You and everyone else that has it coming!”

I’ve managed to keep my hatred of Grandfather to myself, but for this girl, I’ve made it clear right from the start.

She looks up at me then. I almost get knocked down by the look in her eyes as she looks up at me.

I hate that look.

“Emmett,” she starts again, this time her voice carrying a weight and hurt I’ve never heard before. “I’m sorry. I don’t have the full details yet, but I promise to do my best to remember! When I do, I’ll help you!”

What the hell is she talking about? What help could she possibly offer?

Ivy gets up, her tiny body staggering a bit. I reach out, intending to help steady her but stop myself at the last second.

Touching her is a bad idea. Just like the dreams I have of her… bad idea.

“Just promise me something,” she goes on, grabbing my bruised, bleeding hand with hers.

It’s then that I notice her own hand is bleeding.

My body jerks and then freezes like a freaking ice block.

Without thinking, I grab her hand, pull her fingers away forcefully until her palm spreads open and what I see chills my blood.

“What is this?” I mutter, staring at the deep wound in the center of the girl’s palm. “Who did this to you?”

When she remains silent, I can’t help but deliberately grip her injured hand tighter until she cries out in pain.

“What happened to you?” I demand, each word gritted and tense.

Ivy jumps, but she keeps her mouth shut.

“Tell me, damn you! What the fuck is this? Who did this?” I step closer to examine the damage. There are other shallow slices, as if someone took a sharp but rugged-edged object and did a design in her palm… but the huge gash… Jesus.

“It doesn’t matter,” she whispers.

“Like hell! Who was it?”

“No one…” she whispers, her gaze lowered as if she’s ashamed.

“I won’t ask you again.”

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