Page 43 of Hunted By the Headless Horseman
She does not move her head, and I curve my fingers against the small of her back, slowly rubbing.
“She helped me escape. She dressed me up like an escort guard. I was eighteen, so the law was on my side, especially when she had my birth certificate. When my mother was still asleep, and my father hadn’t arrived at my birth, she insisted that a copy be given to her. Thaddeus didn’t care back then. He had other wives, and from the little Mimi learned, it didn’t take long for him to choose a younger wife to betroth.”
Now, the worst of the tremors shiver through her. I can’t fathom when it seems her story has ended, and the time of escape must have been a time of ease and reconstruction.
“J-Jack,” her voice cracks, and she gasps and sniffs, betraying her tears. “I can’t bear to know what you must think of me when I sh-share the n-next p-part. It wasn’t long after I f-fo-found out. I was…pregnant.”
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck! I ball my hand into a fist at her spine, feeling her tense.
Oh, my Belle.
“Jack, it was wrong. So wrong. What he did. What happened because of it. I know you had children. You’ll hate me for this, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. If I kept it, Thaddeus would have learned. The cult might be off the grid, but they still have connections in the county. They have paid off the police and town officials, so they can keep their compound running. And Mimi was a midwife—she helped me. It was so early, and I healed quickly because of her.
“Belladonna’s Bookshop became my baby. It helped me heal. It gave me life. Mimi paid for my education. My major was in Literature, and my minor was Business. She gave me the freedom to manage the bookshop after I earned my degrees. Mimi protected me. My family disowned me. And I was all the better for it. But somehow…I don’t know how, but Thaddeus knows what happened.”
She shudders more, clinging to me hard, crying harder.
“Oh, god, Jack, please…I’m so sorry,” she rambles, quivering through her entire speech. “I couldn’t bear the thought of my baby falling into his hands. It was a guarantee. I didn’t want a baby growing up in the cult. Even if I tried to give the child up for adoption, he would have found out. And spirits forgive me, but I didn’t want the reminder. I didn’t want to live with the marks every day. I would havefeltthem. I never could have healed. I never could have moved on. They became a distant memory instead of a scar. Maybe I could have been strong enough to have the scar. I’m so sor?—”
Stop. Fucking stop, Belladonna.
She shakes. I tighten my grip on her, fingers digging into her back while I fist her curls. She’s near catatonic—and as she’d said, she has never conveyed the truth to anyone, save for her grandmother, until now. Belle has given me a reflection of her inner mirror, however dark it may be.
I feel my pulse thundering, my breaths in the tether of our unified mind. Her tears become a watery companion upon my skin, falling onto my tattoos. She’s opened her scars. She’s fuckingbleedingfor me! Unraveled.
It’s not my duty to stitch her together. Only she can do that. But it is my duty to hold her heart in my hands, let the blood drip upon myself, and kiss the hurt. It is my responsibility to give her a safe haven and my protection. I am her shield. I “wholeheartedly”—as much as is possible—will hear her, hold her, and defend her.
My Belle…I tuck my hand beneath her chin and lift her face. An empty gesture when I have no eyes she may look into, but nevertheless:There is nothing to forgive. You do not require my forgiveness, nor anyone’s. Yes, I understand the depth and grief of the loss of a child. But you did not choose such a life. It was forced upon you. You were born into it. You did not choose your husband.
“But I?—”
Fuck, Belle.Myturn.
17
Wherever my heart lies, it beats for you alone, Belladonna Holloway
BELLE
Inod against his chest, tracing his tattoos again. It gives me a center, something to focus on instead of the demons of my past. I trade Thaddeus’s voice for Jack’s tattoos. I’d traverse every inch of his inked skin if I could.
Yours was the choice of one who has no choices. A choice born of grooming and deception is no choice. Consent is not black and white,he assures me, circling back to one of our earlier discussions. I hold onto his deep and velvety voice.As we have discussed, the world exists in many shades of gray. And I am the darkest of gray. You may have a black stain of your past. But, by thunder, my Belle! You have reclaimed so much; you shine like a goddamn diamond! A rare one that was formed under the greatest of pressure.His grip on me tightens, strong and steady.You shine despite the darkness of your past.
Holy Hecate, the floodgates are opening again, and I can’t help the tears from escaping. No one has ever described me like that. Mimi called me her flower because…Belladonna.
And I…I am responsible for mine. My pride, my ego, led to the nooses around my wife’s and children’s throats. Although others bore the blame for their attacks on my family, especially Edmund Thorne, I chose the life of a highwayman. My wife and children did not. Unlike me, my beautiful Belladonna, you were caught between a rock and a hard place. You need no absolution. You did not deserve such a burden. Not when you were rising just above childhood. But if it would ease your conscience, you may accept my word, such as it is.
“Jack…” How could I not gush? I wipe my tears on his chest and part my lips, rubbing them against his chest first. “I don’t deserve you.”
Damnation, Belle, you must never say such a thing. Perhaps, like your earlier analogy, we are much like Heathcliff and Cathy. But know this, Belladonna Holloway…
His tone turns insistent, darker than ever as he urges my face upward. For the first time, I truly imagine what his head must be like. Cheekbones sculpted by the gothic master artists of old. The dark and handsome tragic heroes who live on in the hearts of romantic girls like me.
May we agree that we are both flawed, with our own demons and darkness, both broken and in need of understanding—for is not understanding the greatest gift of love? If I can love without a heart, without a head, then let it be said that I loved you, Belladonna Holloway, with all that I am. My long-lost heart. And my soul.
This isn’t rational. It defies everything I’ve been taught. It defies the laws of progressive feminism. But maybe it’s fine when I’ve always been that romantic, that unique individual who never fit in. Maybe I can be the hopeless romantic and the strong, progressive woman. When women can be anything they want, then why must I choose?
I don’t know if I can say the words yet, but I feel them with every molecule of my being. So, I whisper them to myself first. I need to feel it deeply first. So deep, it transcends the boundaries of nature. That is how I’ve always been—always seeking the beautiful and fathomless things of this world.
