Page 157 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
Nash stopped me with a hand on my hip. He continued, “Life is a Sisyphean task. You put out one fire, and another one starts. It’s easier to accept it burns.”
I couldn’t think past his touch, but I tried. “And when there’s no place untouched by the fire?”
“You live in a world consumed by fire, but at least it’s the truth. You’re not lured to sleep with a false blanket of security, telling yourself you exist in a part untouched by the flames.”
“That’s a horrible way to live.”
“Newsflash, Little Tiger, it’s life. There’s death, and betrayal, and revenge, and guilt everywhere you turn. It’s healthier to live it, breathe it, and participate in it than to pretend it doesn’t exist.”
“And when you’re burnt everywhere?”
“Don’t succumb to the fire. Be the bigger flame.” His fingers dipped below my shirt, skimming the sensitive skin.
You are the biggest flame I’ve ever met, Nash Prescott. You deprive me of oxygen.
We continued down the path. I toyed with his conviction, considered fighting it, and decided against it. The creed suited Nash, the man with the penance tattoo and the unlikely streak for charity. Nothing about him made sense, which was exactly why it made sense.
I liked odd.
Thrived on it.
I accepted Nash for who he was.
Silently, because the second I told him I saw him, he’d morph into someone different, and I’d have to solve the puzzle as the pieces changed.
My very own Sisyphean task.
The path led to the sculpture in the center. My heart rattled its cage when we rounded the last turn. I wondered if I’d remembered it correctly. But the second my eyes reunited with it, I knew I’d made the right choice.
“It’s wrong,” Nash said five minutes after he saw it.
He’d spent that first five minutes silent.
Just staring at the sculpture.
Not a single word.
I spent those five minutes staring at him, only to realize, in this moment, I couldn’t read Nash.
“It’s perfect,” I argued.
“It’s not what I wanted.”
“It’s what you needed.”
He raked his fingers through his hair. Three times. “It’s inaccurate.”
“Yeah?” I stroked the base of the mountain. The same reverence you’d give something holy. “What’s Sisyphus supposed to be then?”
“Sisyphus is a treacherous sea. One that drowns you.”
A response sat at the tip of my tongue, but all I could conjure was silence. Ben had called Sisyphus a treacherous sea. As in, Ben from Eastridge.
Horror dawned on me the same time Nash turned to me and said, “We’re not getting it. It’s not right. Find another.”
“We are not getting anything. You are.” I released a shaky breath, forcing myself to play it cool. I had no confirmation. Freaking out would be pointless. “This is the sculpture. There’s no other.”
“Emery.”
