Page 24 of Wicked

Hearing Candlewick echo my own words stops me cold. I want to tell him I’m not a survivor of abuse because I don’t want to feel vulnerable or like a victim. But what did Candlewick say to me when we talked about his experience with Dorian?

I’m doing that thing, aren’t I? Where I pretend I’m better than other omegas who don’t leave when their boyfriends hit them? I’m sorry. That’s shitty of me.

Am I doing the same thing? Pretending I’m better than the other people who have experienced the same trauma I have? Anne and I have raided several breeding pits since we started working together. Did I hold the alphas in those pits responsible for what happened the way I hold myself responsible? Or did I give them a free pass while I blamed myself for everything?

“I’m sorry, Candlewick,” I say because I have to say something. He’s waiting there, completely confident and comfortable in nothing but a pair of black, lacy underwear while I can’t even kiss him without panicking.

“There’s no need to be sorry. I understand. But we can make this work. I have experience with men who have been through sexual assault, and there are some things we can do to avoid future triggers.”

He’s thinking of me as some kind of project, a problem he can fix with the right methods.

I grab for the shark shirt he deposited on the floor. “No. I should go.”

“Go?” For the first time since we came into this room, he seems unsure. “But we were… You wanted…”

“Like you said, this is different from the pits. Maybe I didn’t have any control there, but I do now. And this time, I’m going to do the right thing.”

The horrible thing about turning around and walking away is that it doesn’t feel like the right thing at all. My whole heart is screaming at me as I take step after step toward the door.

For the first time in my life, my heart and the part of me who puts God above all else are at war with one another. If I leave, I will always feel guilty for abandoning Candlewick. If I stay, I will feel guilty for making love to him when I know lusting after a man is wrong. There is no right way tonight, only guilt and shame.

I guess in the end, it isn’t that different from the pits. Not really.

7

Manny

I feel numb as I hail a cab to Anne’s apartment in the city. Nothing matters anymore. Not H or Dorian. Not the mission Anne and I are scheduled to leave on in a few days. Not even the man I left behind at Revolver’s who I know I hurt.

There have been times when I wondered why I was rescued from the pits. Why did I get to survive when others didn’t? Tonight, I wish I hadn’t been rescued. Then I wouldn’t be walking into this empty apartment in the middle of New York City. I wasn’t ever meant for this place. I belong in a cabin in the middle of the woods where I can’t hurt anyone anymore.

But when I open the front door, I discover I’m not alone. Anne is standing in front of a stovetop in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. She’s wearing an oversized sweater and a pair of sweatpants that she lives in when we end up in Russia during the winter. Her back is slightly hunched, and she looks so tired I’m reminded again of how old she is.

“What happened with Dorian?” I ask.

She gives me a sad smile. “He’s dead.”

“Did H—”

“No. Dorian traded twenty-five years of his life for the spell that created Buddy, and tonight Magic came to collect her dues. All we had to do was watch.”

It’s strange how suddenly death can change things. Just hours earlier, H and Buddy were braving a visit to the Den of Dreams to escape Dorian. Candlewick was abused by Dorian for years, and now he’s gone. They’re all free.

Steam rises from the spout of the pot. She flips the burner off and grabs a hot pad to pour hot water into a mug where a tea bag is already waiting. It smells of peppermint and licorice. During our first weeks together when she was training me, we drank this tea together every morning.

“Would you like a cup?” she asks.

“Yes, please.”

She opens the cupboard next to the oven and takes out a second mug. The shelves are crammed with canned stew, oatmeal, and pouches of applesauce. We rarely stay here, but when we do, we don’t have time to go grocery shopping. Tracey makes a point of stocking the kitchen with nonperishable foods and Anne’s favorite tea.

She adds water and a tea bag to the second cup and hands it to me. “Where is Candlewick?”

“With a friend.”

She sighs. “You’re such a fool.”

The words are like a slap to my face. Her voice is quiet and terse. She doesn’t need to yell at me. Her biting disapproval is loud enough.

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