Page 102 of Obsession

I don’t know why it’s happening. I don’t know if it’s magic, or guilt catching up with me. In a way, the latter makes the most sense. When I was with Aris and the Following, I was in survival mode. There wasn’t time to mourn the destruction I witnessed. When I was in the cabin, Jaegen’s dominance hung over us. It didn’t feel safe then, either.

And now?

Maybe it’s time to feel the pain and accept the part that I played in all of this. Maybe it’s time to understand and process the atrocities I witnessed.

Maybe it’s right that I’m having these dreams. Maybe I owe this to everyone who died and to everything that was lost. Aris has forgotten them; only I and his creatures know what happened, and they don’t care in the slightest.

But then, the dreams are not about the people who died. I don’t see the faces of Aris’ victims. I don’t watch buildings fall and cities burn to ash. The dreams are about my pain. My fear.

It could be that, deep down, I think that I deserve to suffer. That I don’t deserve joy or kissing Aris in lagoons. That there should be no happy ending for Mary.

Chapter twenty-four

It’s late.

We sit next to each other on the beach, watching the bonfire. Set ablaze with a flick of his wrist and fed with driftwood, the colors of the flames change from the sea salt. Intentional on neither of our parts, having forgotten the science myself, we were both equally startled and fascinated when the blaze flared green instead of red.

“Did you do that?” I asked, and he shook his head.

Intrigued, we’ve sat in silence for some time now, staring at our own creation. Words he won’t speak hang in the air: I must rest. He’s right; we both know it. I’ve been awake for some time now, long enough that I feel half insane.

I’ve been fighting it for as long as I can, but with the warmth of the fire, the sound of the ocean, and Aris’ presence, my eyelids grow heavier by the second. I’ll sleep soon, whether I want to or not.

I’ll succumb.

My head is on his shoulder, our fingers locked together as he murmurs, “I can’t stand to see you like this.”

I don’t have the energy to look at him, but the crack in his voice twists my heart. How peculiar: I am suffering and he is suffering because of it.

“I know,” I say.

“You can’t keep going this way.”

“I know.”

He tenses. “What will we do?”

I don’t answer. He won’t like what I have to say, which is that I have absolutely no idea. I don’t know how to fix whatever has broken in me. If I’ve lost my mind, it’s beyond my ability to retrieve it.

Aris goes quiet for some time, long enough that I am drowsy when he speaks once more. “I would do anything for you, Mary.”

He’s said things like this before—so many times that it doesn’t feel particularly important to gather my remaining energy to respond.

Then, Aris adds the damning, “I love you.”

Suddenly, I am wide awake, as if I’ve escaped a nightmare or entered into one. My body locks in its position. I don’t dare move.

I love you.

I need time to compose my face; I’ve no idea how to respond.

Strangely, most of my thoughts don’t have to do with whether I love him back but whether I am capable of being loved at all.

“What is it?” he asks, quietly.

“I’m just wondering. Love…” I drift off, unsure how to say it without sounding pathetic. With some dissatisfaction, I find no better alternative. Sighing, I finish, “Do I deserve it?”

“Irrelevant,” he says immediately. “Do you want it?”

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