Page 164 of Endgame
But old habits die hard. Sturdy walls are nearly impossible to tear down. It takes time for them to crumble. Effort. Patience.
Staring into Aurora’s blue eyes, I search for a sign. Any sign that she’d at least give us another chance.
I get more than I bargained for.
Determination shines through her blue eyes.
Yes, she’ll do that for me. She’ll stay by my side because she wants to.
She’d rip me apart, piece by piece, and I’d welcome it.
Until that happens, I start by changing the subject altogether. Ask about something far more interesting than my crushing past.
The question I woke her up for. I have to know everything about her. “Why don’t you start by telling me about yourself?”
Seconds tick by. Seconds during which Aurora says nothing.
Maybe she’s considering my question. Maybe it’s the feeling of my thumb running smooth paths over her bruise that renders her silent.
Or maybe this is just her getting back at me for…
Well, for everything.
I wouldn’t blame her.
“Okay.” A few blinks, and the look in her eyes shifts. Softens. Despite the condemning evidence against me, Aurora’s inner court has ruled in my favor. “What would you like to know?”
The first question that comes to mind has my muscles tensing. Teeth gnashing.
My body readies itself to absorb her response. “Has Winston always been this way?”
Her breath hitches. Whatever memories I’ve evoked, they’re bad. I’ve dug a knife into scars that never really healed.
Yet she doesn’t cower, instead lifts her chin, her gaze fierce.
Her pain, her suffering, she owns them. She manipulates them in her favor. Uses them as fuel to stoke the fire within her.
She carries herself so beautifully. Another trait that’s been pulling me to her.
She’s regal. This woman who’s been holding herself together alone for too long.
That’s why running toward me, the big bad wolf, wasn’t a compromise.
I’m deplorable, cruel, and strong. I’ve also, unbeknownst to me, protected her. Sheltered her.
I’m the one who quiets the voices in her head. Who could never hate her.
She got that part right.
“Tell me.”
A soft sigh, and here she is. Instead of cursing me, she leans into my touch. Searching for the comfort of my palm.
She clears her throat. “He never punched me, if that’s what you’re asking.”
A knife through the chest, that’s what I feel like. I don’t want to hear the rest, but I have no other choice. I have to learn just how wrong I’ve been about her. I’m her husband.
Her burdens are mine.
