Page 152 of Remy

“His initial prognosis was never great, Pyro.”

She flinches. Straightens. Nods. Such a tough, composed beauty.

But the next blow won’t be as easy to withstand. “It’s pancreatic cancer.”

Her eyes flare. Her lips part. “No.”

I give the information time to sink in. The severity. The well-known statistics. Then I reach for her, taking a hit of the drug I promised to steer clear of as I drag her into me.

“No.” She shoves at my chest.

I clench my teeth against her misery, hating myself, hating the whole fucking situation. I drop my arm, determined to quickly tear off the remainder of the Band-Aid. “He’s deteriorating.”

She shakes her head and backtracks a little more. “What did your doctor say?”

I want to touch her again, to be holding her when I stab the final knife. “He agreed that Carlo’s original prognosis was accurate. He’s always been terminal. The chemo was only to buy him more time. But the benefits of treatment no longer outweigh the side-effects.”

“Tell me you’re lying,” she rasps.

I continue toward her across the neatly clipped grass as she continues back. “I’ve never lied to you.”

Withheld, for sure. But never lied.

Her face scrunches—her nose, her forehead. “How long does he have?”

She’s still admirably poised. So controlled. I would’ve thought she’d be a blubbering mess by now. But no, not my Ollie. She keeps the agony trapped inside.

“How long, Remy?”

My pulse thunders in my ears as I reach for her, my fingers brushing her forearm before she inches away. “A few months.”

Her face falls, her devastation increasing under the moonlight while she presses a splayed palm over her stomach.

“There’s nothing more that can be done.” I called all the doctors. Applied for all the trials. Even enlisted my sister to do holistic research.

Ollie’s eyes fill with glassy desolation.

I reach out again. Always drawn to her. Always a fucking slave to this woman.

“Don’t,” she pleads. “I need space.”

She turns to cross the lawn, her breaths growing louder, sharper.

I follow at a distance, waiting for a sob that never comes.

Instead, she jogs a few yards, making me lengthen my stride, only for her to collapse onto her knees on the grass.

She lurches forward on all fours.

“Ollie.”

She retches.

Fuck.

I rush to her, the staples in my thigh threatening to tear as I drop down at her side.

“Please don’t.” She shoves at me. “Leave.”

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