Page 61 of Deviant Illusions

“Yeah, you did. You grabbed me when I was leaving the club and you never spoke to me.”

His fingers flex on my nape as his face hardens. “You’ve been there, with that fucker, this entire time?”

I nod and his nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath. It’s probably not the best time, but the creepy surroundings and our even creepier families won’t allow there to be a better one, so I blurt out, “I tried to help you.”

His eyes are even harsher, and I dig my nails into his back so he can’t push me away. I need him to understand me, actually listen instead of being angry all the fucking time and blaming me for something I didn’t do.

“I promise that I tried. I even wrote a letter. It said that it wasn’t your fault, but then it all goes fuzzy and I’m not sure what happened or what I dreamt.”

“You didn’t try hard enough,” he dismisses, and stiffly peels my arms off him.

My eyes burn as he turns off the water and steps out of the shower. He’s still blaming me for shit I haven’t done. The scar on his back is covered by his new tattoos, but that couldn’t have been me unless I magically learnt how to break into a prison.

He wraps a towel around his hips while I stand at the edge of the shower, water dripping from my hair. It races down my back, making the temperature plummet in my panic. “Kane? You have to believe me.”

I slip back as he whirls around with his eyes burning through me. His breathing is harsher, and he looks ready to murder me. Not leave me in a burning building, like he did last time, but take his time and dismember my body type of murder.

“I have to fucking believe you?” He takes a step forward and dips his head so we’re eye to eye. “I. Don’t. Have. To. Do. Shit.” His hands curl into fists, veins sprouting up through his forearms, crawling over his hands and fingers. “Especially whereyou’re concerned. I know all about the fucking letter. Do you think that fucking helped?”

I flinch at his tone, but he doesn’t calm down.

“Do you want to know what it did? How your little fucking letter of lies was given to every fucking guard, and they put me in protective fucking custody so that they could control the cameras? Do you know who you interact with in protective custody? Pedophiles, rapists—the ones who have raped their own mothers or children. It’s where humanity goes to die.”

Water splashes up from the tile as he takes another harsh step.

“Would you find it funny to know that I fucking begged them—like I begged you—and just like it did withyou, it achieved nothing. They laughed, and I was the one left bleeding on the fucking floor.”

How is he angry at me for telling the judge that he couldn’t have killed Asher because he left the cabin? It was his alibi and it’s not my fault if they didn’t believe me.

“I—”

He wraps both hands around my neck, cutting me off, and I push against his chest. It doesn’t stop him, and I realize he’s never used his full strength before, because in this moment, I believe that he wants to kill me.

“Do you know the worst fucking part?” he asks. I weakly cough as he increases the pressure against my windpipe. “It’s the fact I spent years telling myself that there had to be an excuse, that it wasn’t you, because obviously the girl I was in love with—the only one I had ever fucking touched—wouldn’t be a lying fucking bitch and say that she felt unsafe because ofme. No, that’s not possible. She wouldn’t have signed her fucking name on a letter that said I fucking raped her and she couldn’t even leave her house because. Of. Me.”

Black dots dance at the edges of my vision and my fingers tingle. But I punch his chest to get him to move his hands. He’s lying. It’s another game that he’s playing, and he’s not letting me prove him wrong.

“And she wouldn’t have allowed her dickhead of a father to sit with the judge and say that I killed Asher because I was jealous. That I wanted you so badly and you kept rejecting me, so I killed my own fucking brother!”

He turns his head and abruptly opens his hands before walking away. My knees slam against the wet tile of the shower floor without him holding me up. The glass panel is still fogged, blurring the image of his back as he walks into the bedroom.

I numbly slip down to sit in the corner. We’re both so sure of what happened, but the barest of details match. There are usually three sides to a story—my side, his side, and the truth. The truth should theoretically sit somewhere between each of our perspectives, but how the fuck can that happen when we each have drastically different facts?

29

KANE

She always has to lie. I don’t even know why I give a fuck or why I keep allowing her to suck me back into her shit. I should have fucked her. At least I wouldn’t be pissed at her mouth that way.

The bag I’d taken to Austria is sitting on the edge of the bed. I don’t bother getting dressed. Instead, I go into the front pocket and take out the metal cigarette holder and a lighter. I don’t know what Helene will be doing, but not knowing shit seems to be the theme of my fucking life.

There’s a twisted urge to set fire to the drapes around the bed and watch Delilah burn in this fucked up house. I know I wouldn’t be able to see it through. I’d end up staying next to her, and she doesn’t get the satisfaction of seeing me die. Spite is the only thing keeping me alive as her small sobs come from the bathroom, making me hate her a little less for soothing me. Now we’re both fucking broken beyond repair, only I’m not the one in tears this time.

She doesn’t show emotion easily and she never used to feel bad about anything she did. It was a given that she could have whatever she wanted at any time because she was a Leroux andher name meant something to the shallow fucks she surrounded herself with.

I fight my own feelings and walk in the opposite direction of her cries. I can’t leave the room though, and if she asks I’m going to have to lie and say I was enjoying her pain when the opposite is true. I fucking hate her being in pain. I crave it, yet there’s an equal need to comfort her when she doesn’t fucking deserve it.

The trio of large arched windows are dressed with thick brocade drapes, but one of the openings works. I climb up, swing my legs over the stone ledge and watch the drop down to the water, that must be at least twenty feet, as I take out two cigarettes. Placing one between my lips, I hold the other between my finger and thumb, then stretch my arm out over the edge. I slowly open my fingers and watch the brown tip roll until it becomes nothing more than a speck, ultimately engulfed by the water without making so much as a dent.

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