Page 36 of Mated To The King's Gamma
Her words wrap around me, but I can’t hold onto them. I’m slipping, drowning. My mind retreats into the dark again.
Then I hear the soft creak of a door opening.
I barely react as I feel another presence enter the room.
Gannon.
I can feel him watching me. They seem to be using the mind link because Azalea is staring at him, her eyes glaze over when she grabs my wrists, seeing the long thick scar running up each one, now closed, and shame washes through me when she lifts my hand, kissing my fingers.
“Come back to me, Abbie,” she urges. Hours we lay on that floor, hours Gannon remains next to the bathtub, and I know Kyson is nearby.
“Abbie?” I stare at her.
“More than my life,” Azalea whispers. I stare at her. She has something to live for, a purpose, and she is needed. I’m not. I won’t be her burden any longer or theirs.
“We made a pact. You need to come back to me, Abbie, or I will come with you. No matter where, I will come with you. Remember that.” I shake my head.
“You don’t want to go where I have been. The things I have seen, the things they did,” I whimper.
“What they did, Abbie. They can’t hurt you anymore. I won’t let them. Gannon won’t let them. They aren’t coming back. They are gone. Everyone from the past is gone. They are dead. We are still breathing, so don’t let them win,” Azalea says.
“They already did. They don’t have to live with what they did, but I do, and I will live with it for the rest of my life. I will live with it, not them, me. And me living with it makes them alive. I can’t do that to Gannon and Tyson, don’t you get it? I can’t, Azzy.” I try telling her, sitting up. My eyes burn with rage. How can she force them, force me?
“I don’t want to live with it. I don’t want to force them to live with it!” I scream at her. I won’t force them. They’re better off without me.
“I can’t, I can’t,” I scream. I start clawing at myself, ripping myself to pieces, and ripping out my hair. Can't they see I'm a lost cause? They can't save me, and I don't want to be saved.
Gannon grabs me, but I scream. Blood-curdling screams echo off the tiled walls as my anger rises, and I attack Gannon as he tries to stop me from ending this. It needs to end, I can’t, I won’t, I don’t want this, I never wanted this!
“More than my life, Abbie! You promised!” Azalea screams at me, grabbing my face.
Not anymore. She doesn't need me. I don’t want to ruin her more. She is finally free, and she needs to be free of me!
“Let me go!”
“She will hurt you,” Kyson warns, and he is right. They just need to let me die in peace!
“Seeing her like this hurts me,” Azalea tells him. Gannon suddenly pins my arms by my sides as I thrash. Gannon grunts when I toss my head back, but his grip doesn’t waver, even when the back of my head connects with his nose.
“Stop. We are trying to help you,” she yells, but she doesn't get it, none of them get it as I continue to thrash, this time kicking her in the chest and sending her flying back into Kyson. She snarls and grabs hold of my head. I feel her in my mind, feel her invading the nightmare that is sucking me back in, I want to shove her out, but she holds tight, enduring along with me, watching my greatest shame.
We were fifteen, and I had finished helping Azalea hang out the washing. I remember that day so clearly, everything. I can still feel the breeze as we went back inside, and I retrieved the mop buckets from the closet. They were dirty.
“I will quickly wash these,” I tell her, and she nods. She moves toward the stairs, clutching the railing tightly as she goes to move on to the next chore. I watch her go, her lashes tearing open and staining the back of her dress with each movement. She pauses halfway up, and I chew my lip with worry. She has been having dizzy spells. We haven’t eaten in days, and her hands shake as she clutches the banister, trying not to pass out.
“Ivy?” I had whispered. She waved me off.
“It’ll pass,” she told me, yet she was as pale as a sheet. She kept climbing the last of the steps, disappearing, and I clutched the mop bucket and moved toward the kitchen to see the butcher talking to Mrs. Daley. They both stopped and glanced at me, and I stopped and turned back around.
“Be a love and help me carry the meat from the truck down,” the butcher told me. He always creeped me out. Something was off about him; he was always trying to touch me. I shook my head.
“No, I can’t, I am busy,” I told him, holding up the bucket. I turn to leave.
“That can wait, you will help Doyle,” Mrs. Daley said, and I froze, turning back to look at her.
“Go start bringing it in. I will send Abbie to help in a minute,” she assured him. I swallowed, looking at Mrs. Daley frantically.
“Ma’am, I really can’t,” I tell her, grasping at any excuse I could when she held up a hand, making me stop.
