Page 191 of Cross the Line
I can’t breathe.
Death is a terrible, awful thing. This is the second time it’s come for me. Except, today, nothing can save me.
I thought hell would burn me, but I was wrong; it’s bludgeoning me from the inside out.
Flipping the shower on, I race inside the large space. The water hits cold, forcing the solid air out of my lungs.
The emptiness it leaves behind is worse. As I brace myself on the tiled wall, my stomach wrenches with a twist that pulls it up into my throat. Retch upon retch convulses my body.
Meanwhile, I watch from the outside. Watch my body desperately attempt to clear itself of everything I’ve just heard. Like somehow, I’ve swallowed each word, and I can purge myself of the ugly truth.
Presley raped my Eli.
My brother. My twin.
Why?
Why did he have to destroy the only part of me that has never been tainted?
My heart. My love.
As my knees buckle, I cling to the built-in shelf with shaky hands and vomit again. And again.
The corrosive stench punctuates all my feelings. It smells like death. Putrid and rotten. Like the blood in my veins. There is nothing left of me that is unscathed or pure. There is no good left in me. I’m made up of all the evils the scriptures warned me about.
Beware of false prophets. Of wolves in sheep’s clothing.
“Sweet girl…” Cool hands grip my hair at my nape. “Shhh…”
Eli’s voice is unbearably gentle—nothing like the cold, steady cadence he used to deliver the piece of the puzzle I was missing.
I hate him for keeping it from me.
I hate myself for not seeing it.
I hate Presley for ruining us.
“Stop,” I choke, shrugging off Eli’s hold. “Let go!”
The shout scrapes my throat raw, pulling another useless heave from my belly.
“Don’t fight me, Angel?—”
“Don’t. Don’t call me that!” I lurch out of his hold, almost smashing my face into the tiles.
He saves me.
The irony.
The audacity of him saving me. Protecting me. All this time, he’s given me all this new freedom, but underneath it all, he had me locked away where he wanted.
Scuttling along the tiles, I press to the shower glass. The water cools as Eli tempers it. Meanwhile, I watch my reflection in the mirror on the other side of the steamed-up glass, through the imprint of my hand.
Everything around me is still so pristine. So perfect. It’s a mockery of how fucked up I am on the inside.
Eli moves around me. He’s cleaning the mess I’ve made while I scrub at my skin with my knuckles. I want to clean myself of all the filth that clings to me. All the ugliness I inherited, etched in my cells… my skin…
“Stop,” he orders, closer now.
