Page 134 of Dancing with Vipers and Shadows

I’m not sure how to feel when my eyes lock with theirs.

Their stare is mixed with relief and fear, the combination being such an odd outlook with his mismatched eyes. It reminds me of that feeling you experience when you look at someone crisscrossing their eyes.

“Sorry that you have to see such an ugly sight, Ophelia,” he admits, almost as if he’s ashamed of himself. “It was the only way to save you.”

I don’t understand…

It really bugs me when I can’t understand things. Frustrates me to my very core.

He’s apologizing to me as if his image is that to be ashamed of, but what’s the big deal?No. Why is he even apologizing? Does that mean I know him?It proves my mind is a tad sluggish from apparently dying, but the longer I stare at him while I zone the world out, the more I begin to see the tiny traits.

The specific color of those ringed pupils is a shade I can never miss.

Dark Lavender.

The realization hits me like a bus, and my eyes widen as I finally understand who this is.

“Silly… Dalmatian?” I struggle to get the two words out, but I’d rather the inner walls of my throat burn for ages than let this man give me such a face of repulsion.

The reflection of self-hate in his eyes, which are begging for me to see him.

Those eyes are already growing glassy in seconds before tears drop down one by one, as though it’s about to shower on us.

“Hey… Sweet Cruella.”

That’s all he has to say to make my eyes water while my lips and teeth continue chattering. I can recognize more features of him, but to take in his appearance and see just how different he looks in this form makes me want to wrap him in my arms and never let go.

“Hey…” I croak. “Asher?”

He manages to nod, tears rolling down his scarred cheeks.

My poor love…

Just the thought of what Asher has endured in secret makes my blood boil. To think my Silly Dalmatian always tries to be the happy jock, who doesn’t take life seriously and makes everyone smile through our stressful lives, has probably endured the hardest life in his father’s clutches.

I bet these years at N.M.U. have been a blessing to him in comparison to the years he was in his family home, fighting to survive while covering his appearance with an illusion that would paint a sophisticated outlook that made the Heathcliffs good people.

“Sorry,” he apologizes again, as if he was the culprit to my suffering or something. “For hiding… this. You can break up with me. At least… you’re alive.”

The immense sorrow in his voice is going to break my wildly beating heart if he doesn’t fix that tone of his.

Does he really think I’m disgusted by him?

“Are… you… stupid?” The words I croak aren’t really a reflection of how I feel, but seeing as my arms aren’t really cooperating right now, I’m more frustrated that I can’t hug the living shit out of him. “Asher… Heathcliff. If… you don’t… fucking… kiss me right now…”

Talking is so damn overrated.

With a grunt, I manage to sit up enough to brush my trembling, frigid lips against his, despite my arms feeling like dead weight.

Thank you, core strength.

It surprises him before he has to catch me from falling back because my core strength decided to say ‘fuck you, too’ and give out.

“O-Ophelia,” he looks completely surprised.

“First…” I breathe, realizing that small movement took the breath out of me.Damn, my body can’t even cooperate with me when I need it to.“You… insult yourself… one more time… and we’re breaking up.”

He looks more surprised by that, but I keep going.

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