Page 12 of Save Me

"Yeah, I get that, baby," I murmur. "But you're allowed to move on whether she's changed or not. It should hang over her head, not yours."

She nods thoughtfully. "You're allowed to not be sorry he's gone."

Shit. How the fuck does she read me so well? She barely even knows me, yet she sees shit no one else has like she's reading lines from a page. It's unnerving how quickly she's picked me apart and seen the shit I try like hell to hide.

"Don't think the rest of the world would agree with you on that one, baby," I say, shoving my hands into my pockets. If I told them how I really felt, it'd only confirm what they already think—that I'm responsible for what happened to him. That's the last thing I need right now. It's the last thing my mother needs.

Isla stares at me for a moment, clearly thinking about something, before she tips her head to the side. "What did you mean outside? When you said you shouldn't come in, I mean?"

"I meant that I'm not the kind of guy you need to be associated with, Isla. The last thing you need is a motherfucker like me fucking up what you've got going for you here."

Her brows furrow as she falls silent, processing my answer. And then she sighs. "That answer is really depressing, Brantley."

"Depressing?"

"Yeah, depressing," she says, weaving through the room like a restless little fairy. "You've been listening to what people say about you for far too long because you actually believe it. That's depressing."

I follow behind her as she moves through the room, picking things up and then putting them right back down, giving herself something to do, I think.

"The truth isn't always rainbows and butterflies, baby. Maybe you haven't listened to what they say well enough if you think it is," I suggest. "They aren't wrong about me."

"Were the men who killed your dad your dealers?"

I scowl at her.

"Was Bellamy murdered in your place?"

"Jesus Christ, Isla," I growl.

"Didn't think so," she says, tossing her long hair over her shoulder. "Everyone has a past, Brantley. Everyone makes mistakes. You stopped making yours four years ago, but you're still paying for them. At some point,youhave to decide the scales are even. If you wait for someone else to do it for you, you'll be their whipping boy for the rest of your life because they won't ever let you forget who you were."

I eye her silently, taken aback by the vehemence in her voice.

"We were gossip for a long time," she says quietly. "Every damn chance someone got, they'd remind us that our bio-mom was in prison, like we were supposed to apologize for the things she did. But she did themto us, not to them. Eventually, we had to decide where the line was and what we would and wouldn'tallow." She pauses. "And we had to figure out that what she did to us wasn't our fault, no matter what we did." She meets my gaze, her expression somber. "What happened to you wasn't your fault either. And no matter how much you drank after the fact; you didn't drink yourself into deserving it."

"Jesus," I rasp, striding across the room toward her.

"And you don't deserve to keep paying for the way you dealt with what he did to you," she says softly. "It's not up to the world to decide when enough is enough. That's your choice to make."

I draw to a stop in front of her, fucking shaking. But she isn't finished annihilating my world with that sweet voice and passionate tone. Of course she isn't. I don't think this girl is capable of stopping herself from knocking down my walls. She's a fucking wrecking ball of light.

"And maybe you're wrong about who and what I need in my life," she says. "Maybe the things I need more than anything are the things that make me feel alive." Her gaze rolls over my face, something fierce and wild in her eyes. "And maybe, just maybe, Brantley Hill, you're starting to feel like one of those things even if you shouldn't."

"You scare the shit out of me, Isla Sterling," I mutter, dragging her into my arms. My goddamn hands shake as I cup her face, tipping her head back until her eyes meet mine. "Just so we're clear about that."

Her bright smile is worth the confession. "Yeah? You kind of scare the shit out of me too, Brantley Hill," she whispers. "I wasn't supposed to like you."

"Oh, yeah? What was the plan?"

"You were going to help me bring my sister home, and then I was going to go back to my life, and you were going back to yours." Her soft laugh has my dick throbbing. "That ship feels like it sailed before I ever walked into your office the other day."

"I'm not helping you look into the men responsible, baby," I growl, my lips inches from hers. "You look just like your sister."

"She looks like me. I'm older," she stubbornly insists.

"Doesn't matter which of you came first. The point is, you're identical twins. And if they're willing to murder my father in a parking garage in front of her, do you really think they're going to stop to ask for your ID to confirm they've got the right twin before they pull the trigger?"

Fear whispers through her expression…but not nearly enough of it. She's considered the possibility that she could be mistaken for Bella before now. And it still didn't deter her.

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