Page 88 of Sweet Sacrifice (King's Trace Antiheroes 3)

Truth is, I mean all of it. Everything I should be sorry for, I am—but the martyr in me, the darkness inside, refuses to let me admit it. Because if she saw what was really lurking in my depths, it’d probably terrify her. Disgust her.

I’m fucking disgusted with myself.

For spending my entire life chasing something unattainable, something toxic that almost took away one of the most important people I know.

For letting anger and resentment keep me from saving Riley when she initially needed it, for not being brave enough to take the leap and bridge the gap between us.

For not being good enough for Fiona, as much as I pretend to be.

For using her, even as I tried to justify it by helping her.

Clearly, none of that was good enough, because here I fucking am—the rest of my world in complete shambles while the woman I want to be with looks at me with goodbye on the tip of her tongue.

And this time, there’s nothing I can do to stop her.

I have to let her go.

She sighs, giving me a slight nod. “I think you should be honest with yourself, Boyd. Figure out what demons are worth living with, and which ones are worth slaying.”

Clearing her throat, she takes a step back from me, her voice growing thick. It makes my chest burn, and I drop my gaze to the ground before she says anything else, not wanting to see the look on her face when she gives up on me. “And I think... we shouldn’t see each other again. I’m sorry. For all of this.”

Lifting my chin, I just stare at her, trying to memorize what her face looks like clouded with shadows. I think about her chocolate milkshake addiction, her bubblegum bedroom, the sunshine she tries her best to show to the world.

I could ask her to stay. Beg her not to leave me.

But if the result remains the same, I suppose there’s no point drawing things out.

Gritting my teeth, I push past her, my heart plummeting to my stomach like a lead balloon, lodging in the tissue there. I don’t look back, don’t pause one last time to say goodbye.

I just leave.

* * *

Kieran arrives as I’m jogging back to the front of the church, Juliet apparently having been taken hostage by her mother while I was away.

I ignore the dirty looks he shoots me as he and Elia Montalto leave to scour the premises, and when I see Fiona making a beeline for her Jeep in the parking lot, I take that as my cue to duck out, trusting that my best friend can handle himself.

I stop by a McDonald’s on the way back to my house and pick up some fries and chocolate shakes, noting the array of text messages from Craig that range from claiming Kieran’s been killed to Kieran’s alive and being admitted to the hospital in a matter of a few hours.

Because the Devil can’t be killed.

Pulling up in front of my house, I park my BMW in the garage, double check that the door to the apartment upstairs is still locked with its security code, and head into the kitchen from the side entrance.

The house is quiet, something I’d normally welcome, but when waiting for someone to wake up from a coma, that only equals disappointment.

Kal’s been checking on Riley several times a day since the night of the attack, the only person I’m willing to let know what happened to her at this point other than her father, who thinks she was mauled by a bear while doing her community service and has plans to come visit during the week.

Otherwise, I’m keeping her close to my chest, where she should’ve been all along.

I hear canned laughter coming from the inside of the guest bedroom and wonder if Kal left the television on again—his suggestion, a way to entice her to wake up—but when I push the door open and scan the room, I notice she’s rolled onto her side, eyes open and glued to the screen mounted across the room.

“Riley,” I breathe, relief breaking the dam holding all of my emotions back, making my voice catch on the last half of her name.

Crossing the room, I bend down and study her face; without all the blood, she looks more like herself, although she’s missing a large chunk of her cheek, the area hidden beneath gauze.

Her left eye is swollen, bruised, and has several busted capillaries that make her look like a demon spawn, and there’s a deep gash at the corner of her mouth, stitched together like the spot above my eyebrow.

I know what’s hidden beneath the covers tells a much worse story—one of internal damage that has to try and heal on its own, a sexual assault I hope she never remembers, and more emotional trauma than any sixteen-year-old deserves to experience.

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