Page 37 of Burn With Me

“The house?” I stare back at her, confused. “What house?”

“Our house, silly,” she giggles, slapping the top of my hand before pulling away. “Damien’s and mine.”

“So, it’s really official then.” I shouldn’t be so surprised. In the past, every husband she’d been with had ended up moving in with her. Not the opposite. It’s a little unsettling, but it makes perfect sense for her to live with her husband. They’re married, after all. I’d known it was coming since I came home at the end of senior year to find all of our stuff packed and gone. Still, that doesn’t make me hate it any less.

I pull my hands off the table and away from her reach as the waiter reappears and begins setting out our food. I stare down at the Eggs Benedict that I’d ordered and suddenly want nothing more than to shove it off the table and watch the expensive porcelain shatter into a million pieces.

My emotions feel like they’re pulled on a tight string and I’m balancing, walking the tightrope as my mother digs into her salad and pretends like all is right with the world. I want to press into her, ask more, but I think this is all I’m getting from her. At least I got some information on Isaac. I know the real reason why he’s skipping classes—likely to keep the rumor mill from going wild.

The video was one thing. The video he probably doesn’t give a single shit about. The bruises on the other hand … my mother can pretend it’s just boys being boys, but I know the truth. Isaac isn’t the type to let himself be hurt. Therefore, whoever left those marks on him is someone he can’t stop.

Damien Icari.

My hands freeze above my plate at that thought, but it makes sense. His father. It has to be. Who else would Isaac be unable to stop? Who else would have that kind of power over him? Maybe there’s more about my dangerous Icarus boy than meets the eye.

I flick my eyes up to my mother as she chatters on, her words drifting in one ear and out the other about her honeymoon. Something I couldn’t care less about.

“I’ll come,” I say, startling her.

Her big eyes rise to meet mine. “What?”

“To the house,” I clarify. “I’ll come visit the house. I want to meet with Damien again,” I tell her. “I think we got off on the wrong foot last time. Maybe I should apologize for asking Marcus to come to the luncheon without warning you.”

The sound of metal scraping porcelain as her fork clatters to the plate in front of her shocks my ears as she gapes at me. “W-what?”

It’s not that surprising, is it?I wonder. I blink and look down. “It’s not a big deal,” I say. “I just … want to be nicer to him,” I lie. “He’s your husband, after all.”

A sniffle makes me jerk my head up as I watch my mother clasp her hand over her mouth, her eyes filling with tears and a familiar haziness that I haven’t seen from her in a long time. “Oh my goodness,” she croaks. “Rori, darling…” She reaches for me and surprise holds me prisoner as her hands grasp my wrist. “I would love nothing more than for you and Damien to be closer,” she confesses. “I know, with our past, we haven’t been the best of friends, but this is really important to me. He’s not like Eric, sweetheart. I promise.”

My whole body goes cold. “It’s fine,” I lie, staring down at my plate even though my appetite fled the second she mentioned that man’s name. “I don’t want to make a big deal out of it.” Or have her mention that fucker’s name again.

As if sensing my internal agony, she releases me without hesitation. “Of course,” she says quietly. “Yes, I would love for you to come to the house. Perhaps for dinner next week? I don’t want to disrupt your classes.”

I suck in a breath and then another and another, trying to fight off the feeling of my vision tunneling—the world around me growing dimmer and dimmer.Don’t fucking do this, Rori,I order myself.Don’t fucking lose it now. It’s just a name.

But it’s not. It’s not just his name. It’s the reminder. It’s the fact that that stupid dream is still sitting in the back of my mind, like a festering old wound that just won’t scab over. I take slow calming breaths until my vision returns to normal and I feel the urge to puke disperse.

Maybe Eric Wood had expected me to keep quiet about what he did to me, but I’m not the silent type. I’d told on him—to both my mother and my brother. Marcus had beaten him to within an inch of his life and when he’d threatened to have him arrested, my mother had stepped in. She’d divorced him without a second thought and quietly informed him that if he so much as tried to come after her son, she’d take him to court for all that he’d done.

She’d been there when we’d needed her, but it hadn’t been enough. She’d brought him into our lives and I don’t think she even realizes that afterwards, all she’d done was run away. Away from the reminder that I’d destroyed her last marriage. Away from us.

I eat my Eggs Benedict without tasting a damn thing, and I stop when the plate is half empty; I can’t stomach another bite. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter what she does now; no one can erase the past. All we can do moving forward is try to keep those mistakes from happening again—starting with Damien and Isaac Icari.

17

RORI

Aweek passes without a word or a reminder of my promise to have dinner with my mother and her husband. When Isaac shows back up to school, his bruises have faded enough that they’re barely there. If I hadn’t spoken to my mom, I wouldn’t have even known he’d had them. When he reappears, he’s all smiles and no one even questions it. The gossip about the videos has all but completely evaporated.

Is that power?

It’s almost sickening, or it would be if I didn’t know certain truths. Something tells me he’s hiding more than he seems to be. Not just his hatred of me, but his hatred of his father. I’ve rolled the thought over and over in my mind along with something else.

I’m becoming obsessed with him. Watching him in every class. At first, I tell myself it’s just because I’m waiting for payback. I’m waiting for his revenge, but nothing ever comes. In fact, if anything, he starts avoiding me like the plague. Every day, without fail—the second the professor ends class, he’s gone.

I should be grateful. I got what I wanted. He’s left me alone. He’s pretending like we have nothing more to do with each other. What more do I want?

The answer is glaring me straight in the face, but I can’t accept it.

---