Page 61 of Oathbreaker

Breathe in and out.

Breathe.

Winter. I’ve got to fix this shit for Winter. She’s bled enough, and I won’t let another drop spill from her veins because of me.

So now.

Today.

I need to capture control as much as I need my next breath.

Calm yourself.

My hands shake so violently that blood splatters everywhere in fine droplets. I don’t deserve to rebuild my relationship with Winter until this is over. Finished. Safe. I owe her this—because if I don’t, she’ll only get hurt again.

Picking up my shirt, I wrap the crisp linen around my split knuckles. I couldn’t give two shits about this shirt. Leaving the decimated gym behind, I wander through the house. My feet take me to Winter’s door.

I lay my head on the doorframe, closing my eyes to breathe her in. Even from my position outside her room, I smell her rose-scented shampoo and conditioner. Rustling sounds come from the other side of the door.

I put my good hand on the handle. What would I do if I saw her right now?

Talk with her?

Kiss her?

Fuck her, even if she’s not ready?

Closing my eyes, I remove my hand from the door and step away.

Control.

If I can’t control anything else, I can control myself.

FOURTEEN

WINTER

Today, I decided to give up on my degree. Well, that’s not wholly accurate. I’m taking a leave of absence. The school doesn’t know the dirty details of everything that happened in the last six weeks, but they know enough—that I’m dealing with too much to finish right now. I feel like a failure. But with how fucked up I am, I can’t and shouldn’t help anyone.

Iput the pen down and stare out the bay window overlooking the rose garden. Kitty bounces around the garden with Ella, playing fetch and getting his exercise. He pounces from snowbank to snowbank, kicking up patches of snow next to the cleared walkway.

I’ve struggled to get out with him, and he needs daily movement. So I asked Hunter to ask Ella to play with him when she comes over.

I swallow down the discomfort of my inability to ask her myself.

Hunter chose this room for me on purpose, I think. I have a perfect view of the center of the rose garden, where I first knew Hunter was the man for me.

At first, I couldn’t look out of the expansive windows. It was a reminder of my naivety—a reminder of my audacity to seek happiness.

Now, I force myself to remember and face the pain of everything I’ve lost.

A thick tarp covers the roses to prevent the blooms from dying. It’s merciful to the flowers to cover them from the frost and wind. They wouldn’t survive otherwise. But I can’t help but feel that they’re suffocating under the heavy tarp, weighed down and set in place until someone determines it’s safe for them to be revealed.

I know how that feels.

Valentine’s Day is next week. Hunter and I are supposed to be in Paris right now, taking in views from his flat. We’re supposed to be eating French onion soup, tasting French bread and wine, and acting like tourists as we see the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower. We’re supposed to be boating down the Seine. The French doors leading to the terrace are supposed to be open while we make love to the sounds of the city below.

I look down at the journal again, re-reading what I’ve written. The words are harsh and raw, but there is catharsis in giving them form so they can be channeled.

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