Page 59 of Beyond Reason

I couldn’t imagine what I would have done if it had been him.

No, that wasn’t true.

I knew exactly what I would have done—I would have burned down the entire world and every person in my path until someone was lucky enough to get off a shot that put me down. I would have joined him one way or the other.

This house, though, this place… it was peace—it wasn’t death and bullets and whatever had torn us apart. It was the memory of sweet moments. It was pieces of myself that I’d wanted to give to him, a life that could have been so much easier if we’d been allowed to live it.

They were moments that seemed etched into my memory like they’d been there all along, even if they were coming to me in waves that were almost overwhelming. It was like a picture in black and white suddenly springing into color. Every moment with him had been so vibrant, had made me feel so alive when I’d just been going through the motions of mimicking a person before that.

He’d made me feel so much.

I could see him—I could see us. I could see how much I’d loved him, even though I wasn’t sure what to do with the emotions that were almost so intense they were overwhelming me.

I let out a soft sigh and turned my eyes back to the bedroom like I was drawn by strings. He didn’t have to say anything, I’d almost felt him looking at me, felt the way that he wanted me back in bed with him even though he hadn’t uttered a word. I brushed my fingers along the birthmarks littering my chest and stomach one more time, then turned back to the bedroom and crawled across the sheets.

He let me straddle him, let me run my hands along the length of his bare chest, but I watched his eyes drop to the same marks I’d been touching before. The pained expression that crossed his features made something in my stomach clench, but it was his fingers trailing the same pathway mine had that made me sit up.

“It’s okay,” I said carefully, because I wasn’t sure what he was thinking, what he was feeling. I didn’t know what image he saw behind his eyes while brushing those red marks. “I can’t remember it. Maybe I don’t need to remember it.” I tried to smile, because I could almost feel the memories dancing on the edge of my mind, threatening to spill up if I lingered on them. “I do remember all the things we used to do in this bed, though. I bet we could come up with a few new things if we tried hard enough.”

Was it unfair to try to distract him with sex when he was obviously having an emotional moment? Maybe. Did I care if it was unfair?

No, I really didn’t.

It seemed like my words almost worked. He glanced up at me for a second, and the small tug of a smile that pulled at his mouth blossomed warmth across my skin. But then his eyes dropped back to his fingers, and he moved from the obvious echo of bullet wounds to the slash that looked like it was made by a knife.

“I don’t want you to remember it either. I just…” He shook his head, and I brought my hand up, threading our fingers together. “I’d kill him a thousand times over for you if I could.”

Him.

I’d never actually asked, and I was half afraid to now, but this was something that happened after I’d died. It couldn’t hurt me, right?

“Him?”

He looked guilt-stricken for a moment, but he finally whispered it in a pained voice. “My father.”

I paused. Axel’s dad had arranged my death?

That…

“Somehow, that’s not as shocking as it should be.” When he just stared at me with wide, guilty eyes, I added. “He’d tried to kill me before, remember? Twice. He didn’t like me much.”

Axel just kept staring.

“It’s not your fault your dad was an asshole, Sunshine. But I’m glad you killed him for me.”

“I did,” he whispered, and his eyes dropped to my chest again. “If you ever see a birthmark that looks like someone flayed alive… well...” He paused. “Fuck, is that how it works? Do you think everyone has a birthmark from the way they died?”

I arched my brow and made a show of looking him up and down.

“I don’t see any marks on you.”

“There’s a lot of ways for people to die that don’t leave a mark on the skin.” He said it, then something else crossed his features.

Fuck, was he feeling poetic? I dropped down before he had a chance to tell me he’d died the day I had and pressed my mouth to his.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to hear it—it’s that I wasn’t sure if I could deal with feeling guilty over something that I couldn’t even remember… and I realized a part of me did.

I felt bad that I’d left him.

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