Page 99 of Keep Me

She collapses against the tree, hanging her head back as she sobs. “It hurts so much, Killian. I feel it all. I wish I could reach into my chest and tear out my heart. Sometimes, it feels like I might die of this pain, this…loneliness. I’ve been surrounded by people my whole life, but I always feel alone.”

“You’re not alone, Sylvie. Not anymore.”

She sobs again. “I’m so angry all the time, Killian. And no matter what I do, no one cares.”

“I care.”

“I just want to scream,” she cries.

“Then, scream, Sylvie. You can scream all you want at me, and I still won’t leave you.”

When nothing comes out, I shake her again. “So, no one else loves you. Big deal. But I’m here, mo ghràidh.And I am telling you that I will love you enough to make up for all of them. I will keep you, and you can trust me that no matter what you do, I won’t let you go. Because you’remine, understand me?”

When her eyes finally meet mine, tear-soaked and red-rimmed, she surrenders. Throwing her arms around me, she latches herself onto my body, and I yank her off the ground, holding her against me as she cries.

For a while, she just rests in my arms, not caring that we’re getting soaked by the rain. I just let her cry.

Eventually, she mumbles into my neck. “Killian…”

“Yes, darling.”

“Let’s go home.”

With that, I lift her into my arms, cradled against my chest, and I carry her home.

***

Sylvie is shivering in my arms as we reach the house. Martha has the door open, waiting for us with a large towel. Sylvie doesn’t have so much as a rain jacket on. Every inch of her is soaked to the bone, as am I, but I don’t feel the chill. I just feel her trembling.

“I’ll run a bath,” Martha says as we enter the house.

“Thank you, Martha.”

“Poor thing,” she mumbles, brushing my wife’s wet curls from her face. I’m not sure if she’s referring to her wet and cold state or what she witnessed today in how her parents treated her.

Muddy boots and all, I rush upstairs with Sylvie in my arms. I don’t care about a single rug or piece of furniture we’re ruining as I carry her to our room and take her straight to the bathroom.

Martha is quick with the bath, setting out the towels and putting granules of something into the water that smells soothing. Then she scurries out, leaving me alone with my shivering wife.

I set Sylvie on the counter. Her lips are blue, and her eyes are rimmed red. Every muscle in her body is quivering, so I make quick work of removing her layers. Sweater, T-shirt, bra, trousers, underwear. The cold touch of her skin chills me to the bone, so I carry her to the bath in a rush, setting her in carefully.

Even when she’s folded up and sitting in the hot water, she’s still trembling. “Come in with me,” she says through chattering teeth.

There’s not an ounce of hesitation in my body as I tear off my clothes before stepping into the bathtub and facing my wife.

She climbs onto my lap, straddling my hips as she forms her body to me, her face in my neck.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper into her hair.

Warm tears hit my shoulder, and I know she’s crying again. “It’s okay, Sylvie. Just cry, darling. I’ve got you.”

It feels as if an hour goes by like that, with her tears streamingdown my chest and shoulders. When all of her tears have dried up, we relax together in the bath. She’s lying flat on top of me as I recline in the water. I finally feel warmed up, and her fingers are no longer like icicles, so she must be warmed up too.

When I can tell she is more stable, I feel comfortable to talk to her.

“What did she mean?” I whisper. “When your mother said you ripped up your portrait.”

Sylvie lets out a heavy breath. “On my eighteenth birthday, they made a portrait of me. It was supposed to be a gift for me, and it won all of these awards, so they had this big party at one of the galleries to present it. The painting was even calledOur Greatest Achievement.”

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