Page 59 of Promise to Break

Maricela

"Killian," I shout as he drags me out of the school, Simona marching behind us with the tray of cakes to fuck knows where without questioning a fucking thing. No one would dare.

"Where are you taking me? Fuck Killian, my wrist. You're going to destroy my hand." He stops at that, and just as I think rational thought has finally entered his mind, he surprises me again as he scoops me bridal-style into his arms.

No. No way, Maricela Fernandez. You are not letting him take over.

I bang on his chest, but it's like hitting a concrete wall. He carries me to the parking lot, and for the first time, dread covers my body as I see the car with our picture still plastered on its side.

It's not our picture. What's wrong with me? We have nothing together, and I'm not letting him take me away to fuck knows where.

"Killian, please." You're scaring me, I think to myself, but don't say those words aloud.

His face is no longer blank as he says, "I would never hurt you. Not like this."

"So, you'll hurt me in some other way. I think we have established that already. I don't fear physical pain. That's familiar to me." But I do fear what I'll become after this. After you.

He marches on as if I weigh nothing. For him, I might as well be a feather he chose to scoop up just to blow it away when he chooses.

"For that, I wish I was God and could make them suffer under my command for eternity." His voice is feral, as if he knew the worst and would gladly drag my father from hell to do just that. It should scare me. It doesn't. What it does is spread a warm feeling of hope in my loins. This man is dangerous to me, fucking fatal.

"I think that's the devil's role." I ignore my physical reaction to his statement because who the fuck talks like that? Oh, yeah. My bully does. And my body likes it. I try to ignore a particular body part. The one responsible for the transmission of blood. This fucker is not going to dictate my reactions. My heart never was in control of things, and it will not start now.

"So, I'll be the devil. I'll be anything you need."

"Why?"

"I don't think you're ready for the answer to that question. Think of me as the devil if it makes you feel better. He was sent to hell because of something he did, and just like him, I will do anything to get what I want."

"And what do you want, Killian? Because I need to understand. You can't be my hero, not after you were and possibly still are my bully."

"Capes are not my thing, Wild One. Have you heard about people with a god complex?"

I nod because, yes, I have heard about them. They are narcissistic and abusive people. I've known them as well. My father was one if the therapist they gave Serena and I was right. My father was a narcissist because he didn't see our needs. All he could see was himself, his pain, his loss. Losing his wife hurt him deeply, and therefore, he had to find someone to blame. He loved to blame us, especially me, for all his wrongs while he thought he was perfect. In the eyes of society, he was. The perfect cop, the perfect father, the poor man who outlived his beautiful wife and was left with two little girls he loved more than life. No one saw his faults, and I don't think he saw them either. So I wonder about people like Killian, but don't believe he's like my dad.

"I don't know about narcissist people who acknowledge their tendencies," I admit. "Sure, you're a little bit in love with yourself…" I pause as he raises one perfect eyebrow and corrects my mishap. "Okay, you're very much in love with yourself. But that's not the point, Killian." He kisses my nose again, and it makes the stupid organ I was trying to ignore dance. The fucker is all over the place.

"So, what is?" he asks.

"The fact that you made a one-eighty in your treatment of me. I don't care if you have a god complex. I don't care if you're a psycho, which you probably are." I get another raise of his eyebrow at that, and I just look at him, keeping my expression as blank as possible. He's not a neurotypical person. We both know that. In response, all I get is a shrug of his one shoulder, the one that isn't carrying the bulk of my weight.

"Tell me the reason for your change in attitude toward me, and maybe I'll accept it."

"Are you saying that if I tell you why I changed my mind about wanting you in my bed instead of under my shoe, you will accept it and be mine?"

No, I'm not telling him that. I just need the information for my own fucking sanity.

"Let me guess. You want to know so you can go back to being invisible to the entire world? No, Little Girl. You're mine now."

For now, I tell myself, and he sees it. I know he sees my decision by the look in his eyes.

"You can run as far as you want. You can escape to the smallest dot in the world or even under it, and I will find you. This is my first promise to you, Maricela Fernandez. You're fucking mine, and God himself will not take you away from me."

I say nothing more as I stare into those eyes all the way to the car while he carries me with the same protective hold as an artist carries their newest creation. I don't run, buzzing with curiosity to know where he's taking me.

"You, banker's girl," he barks because, of course, he remembers what her father does for a living, but not her name. "Her name is Simona," I say because, clearly, she won't tell him.

"Yeah, right. Put the baked goods in my car and disappear," he orders her, and Simona nods without saying a word as she puts the tray of baked goods on the backseat of the now black car and hurries away, but not before I get a glimpse of her dreamy glance as she spots the image of our embrace on the side panel.

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