Page 92 of Her Wicked Knights
"A fate bound by four, betrayed by one. Cleanse us the interloper, let him be done. Set free the souls tethered to him and let the four be bound to one another again."
The grimoire didn't have the exact spell I needed, so I had to take some creative liberties. Turns out, you can untether souls, but usually only two are bound, which means only two are untethered... and they stay that way. I went off script. We agreed to stay bound, just in case something goes wrong in this life, just in case it doesn't all go to plan. Just in case Whit catches onto what we know and decides to take Marley out with him before we can have her.
When the smoke arranges itself into something like a skull, I wonder if I'm hallucinating. But Colton seems to see it too; I catch sight of him now that the clouds of it are lifting to shape into an omen. But whether it's an omen for us or for Whit, I don't know. I don't much care, either, because the skull hovers there for a minute before it explodes, sending waves of smoke out to each of us.
Tripp goes down first; one minute I see him, clutching the table to try and stay upright. The next, he's gone, collapsed on the ground, and I have to force myself to remain still and not check on him.
Colton falls next, taken down in a choking fit until I'm the only one left standing.
And as I inhale the smoke, letting it do exactly what I asked the spell to do, I focus on the only thing that matters now: revenge.
42
Marley
Thingshavebeenrockysince Logan pushed my boundaries well past the point I gave him permission to go to. And while the sex was fucking phenomenal that night, partly because I wanted to choke him with my bare hands while I rode him, I feel like what he did in the name of progress actually took me two steps backward. Things have been turbulent, and my mind has been a mess. I'm exhausted, unable to sleep, sure that I'm losing my mind more now than ever, and things have stayed weird. It feels like someone is always watching me, and yet, I've never felt so alone. The connection I had with Logan is breaking, fractured by his betrayal, and everything we've worked so hard for over the last few years feels like it went up in smoke. And rather than being understanding about that, he's chosen to be a dick.
"You're not even trying anymore." He accuses, shaking his head at me. "How can I help you if you won't even help yourself, Marley?"
I glare at him since that's all I can do with the tape he put over my mouth.
"I just don't understand. We were doing so good. You were making such progress. What happened?"
I have to assume that's rhetorical. He knows what happened. Even before he took things too far, he hasn't exactly been a champion for supporting me... not since that first time I would swear I saw someone in my apartment. He acted like he cared; he got defensive and territorial the way I would expect a boyfriend to, even though we never gave each other titles. He stayed over for a few days, but then he seemed to decide it wasn't real. The rest of the events he wrote off from the start as products of my imagination, which, I suppose, is valid since he is also my therapist. But telling me in one breath that I'm going crazy and imagining all of these things and then in the next claiming that he's fixing me when nothing seems to be helping anymore is just making things worse.
It's been almost two months since he got me out of the psych hold I ended up in after I woke up from a daze to find I'd cut myself. I'd never done that before, but I must have that time. I don't remember doing it, but I don't think anyone just broke into my apartment to cut weird patterns that look like geometry problems into my arms. They weren't deep, but they bled enough, and considering it came from nowhere, I didn't know what else to do. If Logan had answered his phone, I wouldn't have taken myself to the ER. But he didn't, and I didn't know what else to do. I couldn't trust myself anymore; when they told me they were going to hold me for analysis for a few days, it had been a strange sort of relief. Because if I was crazy and they could prove it, we could fix it, surely. And if I was there for a few days, at least nobody could break in to see me, to stalk me, to spy on me. But then Logan showed up and somehow worked his magic. He took me to his place, instead, and treated me like a freaking prisoner he expected to try and stage a coup against him.
And now here we are. My uniform from the diner is on the floor, my hands are above my head wrapped in tape and tied to the ceiling fan, and I can do nothing except listen to him. The worst part is, I don't hate it. On some level, though, I think I hate him. I hate him for making me feel like I'll never be fixed. I hate him for making me like being broken, even just a little. And I hate him for this endless cycle we're in, the back-and-forth dance. That may be the most exhausting thing of all.
"I know you're trying, baby. I know you are. But why doesn't it feel like it? Am I too easy on you?"
He hasn't been easy on me about anything, ever. Sure, being with him has been simple, given that we have tried so hard to keep it informal. For a therapist who's supposed to make me focus on my feelings, he's done a lot of work to keep me from focusing on how I feel in any way other than the physical. Re-routing the panic has worked, and it's why I've been okay with taking things further, testing boundaries, trying new things. But right now, my anger is fighting for control, trying to survive the flames that Logan is trying to extinguish.
He stops pacing and turns to me, shaking his head when he sees I'm still glaring at him. What else would I be doing? It's not like I could move.
Logan moves toward me fast, and I half expect he's going to tear the rope keeping me barely on tip-toes and let me down. Instead, he wraps his arms around my waist and falls to his knees, burying his face in my thighs as he sobs.
The sudden reaction is so shocking that I don't know what to do... but I suppose that doesn't matter since I don't have an opportunity to do anything, anyway. Instead, I hang there, confused and a little terrified by the sudden onslaught of emotion.
"Why can't you love me?" He sobs. It takes a minute for the words to sink in, and even then I'm not sure I heard him right. "It's all I want. All I've ever wanted..."
When I say nothing, because I already learned that trying to speak into the duct tape is useless, he clutches me harder, sobbing harder and making my shoulders strain to support my weight and his. When he told me to strip, this is not how I expected this to go. In over four hundred sessions of therapy, multiple a week and after hours, it's never gone like this. And why would it? He's never shown the slightest interest in me like that... not in a way like anything I know love to be. He's talked about our future together, and when I was in school to become a lawyer he liked to mention how amazing we would be together. But he's never mentioned kids, never mentioned wanting to grow old with me, never mentioned feeling anything for me. Why would he love me? And more importantly, why would I love him?
At some point, his sobs taper off, and he stands, grabbing the knife off his desk... the one he put there when he told me to undress. The one he ran over my flesh before he tied me up like a pinata.
For one horrible second, I think this is how it all ends. He's never told me he loved me... never even given me that impression. But he has told me he needs me, that he can't live without me, that he'll never let me go. Our co-dependent relationship has always served me so that I've not even questioned those statements. They sure sound different when they're coming at me while I'm perfectly poised like a pig for slaughter, and he's just had his own breakdown.
"It's all going to be over soon." He assures me, his voice eerily calm despite the turbulence of thirty seconds before. Now, all of a sudden, he's calm. And that is somehow more terrifying than the madness he let me see seconds before. If he can slip so easilyfrom being on the brink to pretending everything is fine, what else is he capable of? I'm not sure I'll ever find out. "I can feel it, Marley. Can you?"
I shake my head, because it's all I can do. Even if there wasn't tape on my mouth, I'm not sure I could speak around the tears flowing down my cheeks.
But the thing is, they're not entirely from fear. I don't want to die... but I am not so sure I want to live that badly either. Really, what is there to live for? Everything has fallen apart this year. After fighting to try and get some control over my life, it all just unraveled, leaving me to dangle here like a loose thread. And that realization, that I've become a ghost in my own life? That's fucking sad.
"What do you think will become of me?" Logan asks, his eyes following the subtle curve of the blade in his hand. "Of all of us, in the end?"
It's funny, in a way. I sought Logan out because I needed someone to help me get over my trauma from what happened the last time a psychopath had me at his mercy. Whoever it was in that mask, they could have killed me. They didn't, even if they ran me out of town after. I don't expect to be spared twice. And suddenly, I realize something I forgot years ago. I'm not sure when I forgot it, if it happened all at once or gradually. But I am sure that I forgot it, and now that I remember, I can't let myself forget again. Because I want to live.
Logan's so focused on the blade that he's not really paying attention to me. He doesn't see me kick out at him, but he surely feels my foot connecting with his balls. The knife falls from his hand as his eyes widen in shock. It takes a moment for him to double over, falling to the floor and groaning in pain.
