Page 39 of Oathbreaker

“Our all-day date. Our first kiss. Every time we’ve made love.” I sob, and he launches his body up, pulling me into his arms and rocking me from side to side.

“We’re going to make new happy memories together, Winter. I promise. I promise.”

I clutch his shirt and sob, wanting so desperately to believe him.

When we arrive back at Amelia Manor, I don’t fight him on the added security or that we’re going to his home. If I’m honest with myself, I want nothing more than to be here, in his arms. I don’t know if there’s another place I’d feel safer on this planet.

“We need to talk about a few things,” Hunter says.

I lay in Hunter’s bed after taking a long bath. Hunter wanted to help me, but I declined. I didn’t want him to see my body—to see the new scars Adam left behind.

When I got out of the tub, I stood in front of the mirror and looked at the crude apple he’d carved into my skin. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to core it out of my flesh.

I did neither; I cried.

I’m so fucking tired of crying.

“There are a few things we need to do to move forward.”

I’m immediately wary. “Like what, H?”

He leans against the side table, his hands clutching the surface behind him as he reclines.

“First, I need to know how he died.”

My shoulders rise to my ears, and I cross my arms in a protective pose.

“He’s dead. Isn’t that what matters the most?”

He stares at me for a hard second. “Yes, that is ultimately what matters most. But I need to know how just in case someone asks questions.”

“Who would be asking questions, H?” He sighs heavily.

“Please just tell me, Winter.” Winter. Not baby. Not Sunbeam. His use of my given name impacts me more than I feel it should.

I feel untethered.

“Okay.” I inhale. I exhale. I retell the moments leading up to Adam’s death. How the Universe gave me that razor blade and how I sliced his throat, but it wasn’t enough. I told him about being naked and falling over the railing into the snow. I told him how I stabbed him to death.

“Is it...” I cut myself off.

“Is it what, baby?” His voice is hoarse and short. His muscles bunch as he leans further against the table. He’s affected. He’s angry.

“Is it bad that I’m overjoyed that he’s dead? That I’m thrilled that I was the one to end his fucking life? Does that make me a monster?” I whisper the last sentence. I feel like I’m vibrating. A part of my brain reawakens, the taste of adrenaline as I stabbed him over and over again sharp on my tongue.

“No, it doesn’t make you a monster,” Hunter says. “But if it does, that means I’m the motherfucking devil.” He walks over to me and kisses me on the forehead. It’s rough and hard as he clutches the back of my head, bringing my face to his lips. I close my eyes, breathing in his scent.

“We’ve dealt with him,” he says.

I don’t question what “dealt with” means.

“Thank you,” I say through numb lips.

“And the second thing,” he says, walking back to the door.

When he opens it and sticks his head out of the opening, I say, “What are you doing, H?”

But then I hear the tap-tap-tap I’ve become so familiar with, and I didn’t realize I’ve been missing.

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