Page 65 of Burned
I study her in the pale light.
She looks small curled on that sofa. Not weak. Never weak. Tired.
Done.
Hopefully not done with me.
“I want you to tell me what you’re thinking,” I say, sinking beside her.
She laughs quietly, keeping her distance. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure? You may not like it.”
“Go on.”
She asks, “Other than wanting to kill her for what she did to you?”
“Yes.”
“Other than waiting to dismember her for saying she,” she swallows hard, “still loves you?”
My chest clenches. “Yes.”
She shrugs. “I kind of feel bad for her.”
My body goes still. “What?”
“I want to hate her,” she says. “Isobel looks at you like she knows another you,” she says. “And maybe she does. Maybe she owns that version of you. The one before the fire. Before Carlos. Before everything went dark.”
Isobel was working with Carlos. Regardless of what he told her, what she says to us, I know, in my gut; she was going to let me die in that fire.
“What we had may have been love,” I shake my head, clearing the smoke, “but maybe it wasn’t even that.”
“Careful.” She laughs once. “Careful. You’re getting worse at this. You should be saying you could never love someone who tried to murder you.”
I grab her before she can turn away. Not roughly. Firmly. Hands on her shoulders, keeping her in front of me. “You belong to me, now.”
Her eyes flash. “Then maybe say it in a way that doesn’t sound like ownership.”
Everything in me stills. She’s afraid the only language I have for loving her is possession.
You can love something you own without really loving it.
And that’s not how I feel about her. Not at all.
My love for her is deep and steady even though our relationship has been nothing short of rocking and stormy.
But love is the language that has me constantly tripping over my words and putting my foot in my mouth.
“You want words?” I ask, pulling her close till our faces are almost touching.
She stares at my mouth. “Yes.”
“I want to fuck the doubt out of you.”
Her breath catches. “Lucian,” she warns.
