Page 63 of Whispers of Helena
“Believe me, Bronco, please.”
The name punches through me like a bullet.
“Don’t use that name!”
The half growl, half broken sound that comes out of me is unrecognizable. My hands shake as they grip my hair, as ifholding on to something real will keep me from coming undone.
I fix my eyes on the woman in the room with me.
And it’s her.
The exact sun-drenched brown of her hair, the way it always deepened to auburn in the summer. The familiar slope of her nose. The soft bow of her lips, parted, trembling. The delicate curve of her breasts. And the birthmark. That damned birthmark, just below her hip, right where my lips have traced a thousand times before.
My stomach twists, nausea clawing its way up my throat. No. No, no, no.
“Silas, listen to me. Please.”
She scrambles from the bed, dragging the sheet around her like armor, but it doesn’t matter. She’s still bare, still exposed. Still her.
I shake my head violently, like I can force this nightmare out of existence. The pressure behind my eyes is unbearable; my pulse is a war drum against my ribs. “The fuck I will.” I point a shaking finger at her, my whole body thrumming with disbelief, with fury. “Stop playing games, Helena. I don’t know what the hell you’re doing, but it’s cruel.”
A flicker of frustration crosses her face, overshadowing the sorrow.
“It’s me, I promise, Silas. Please.”
“Your promise is worthless,” I spit. My nails dig into my palms as I clench my hands into fists. “I was right all along. You’re a witch. You’re tricking me. You’re using her shape. Itwasyou that night at Bennett’s. You’ve been fucking with me this entire time.”
“I swear I’m not,” she pleads, stepping closer, her bare feet silent against the floorboards. “I’ll swear on my Bible, I’ll swear on my grave. Just believe me. It’s me, your Caroline.”
The name slams into me like a freight train.
The cold tightens around my chest, stealing my breath. It’s her voice. Not just the sound, but the way she says it, the way she shapes the words. The exact rhythm I remember. My mind ischaos, fraying at the edges, but then something about what she said cuts through the noise.
I blink, my vision blurring. “Wait.” My voice is hoarse. “You said your grave?”
She nods, her chest heaving, her fingers white-knuckled where she grips the sheet.
“No one but Eli and Ruth know where her grave is. They won’t even tell me.”
Her lips part, and her next words come out barely above a whisper. “Take a ride with me?”
I laugh, a bitter, breathless thing that’s more disbelief than amusement. “Why the fuck would I go anywhere with you? I don’t even know who the fuck you are.” I yank the quilt from the bed and wrap it around myself like it might hold me together. “In fact, you should get the fuck out of my house. Leave. Now.”
“No.” The word is solid, immovable.
My temper flares, my control hanging by a thread. “Helena. Get. The. Fuck. Out.”
“Not until you come with me. I can prove that I’m your wife.”
I exhale sharply, holding my restraint beneath the surface to keep myself from lunging, from shaking some kind of reason into her.
She bends, retrieving my jeans and shirt from the floor and tossing them onto the bed.
“Put those on, Silas,” she tells me, a command that makes my chest constrict.
I don’t move.
I can’t move.
