I check the other two books. Both of their dedications are also circled in red.
The second book’s dedication is:
To my muse,
My reason for living.
The third book’s:
To my muse,
See you in hell.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I open the three books and stare at them splayed out in front of me.
The way they were circled is aggressive, forceful even, to the point it’s left a mark at the back of each page.
There must be a reason why Alicia did this. What was she trying to communicate?
I start reading the first book.
The language is chilling, horror-film like. The prologue is about someone digging holes into the earth.
I pause reading, my fingers shaking, and trickles of cold perspiration glues my blouse to my back. Taking a deep breath, I continue.
The digging goes on and on. The thoughts of the person who’s doing the digging tighten my stomach and brings acute nausea to the back of my throat.
The memories I’ve spent so long burying rush to the surface like a demon snapping out of its chains. My head fills with dark, sinister images. The black dirt. The vacant eyes. The —
“What are you doing here?”
I startle, a yelp falling from my lips as I slam the book shut.
Fuck.
Jonathan towers over my sitting position, a hand tucked in the pocket of his trousers and his metallic gaze pinning me with utter disapproval.
Jonathan. It’s just Jonathan.
I don’t know why I felt like the character from the book would jump out from the pages and strangle me.
Or drag me to one of those holes he was digging up.
“You scared me,” I breathe out.
“So you realise you’re doing something wrong. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be scared.” The disregard in his tone throws me off.
It’s almost like a completely different man from the one who pushed my buttons until I unravelled all over his lap.
The man who made me feel after I’d come to the acceptance that I never would in this lifetime.
I hate him for it, and I’ll never forgive him for resurrecting that part back to life without my approval.
“Do you have trouble following instructions, wild one?”
“What?”
“Margot must’ve told you not to come up here.”
I stand, steady my breathing, and grab the books from the floor and place them back on the bedside table. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”
“I do not care for being defied, Aurora. Is that understood?”
“Then you shouldn’t have gotten me.”
He grabs me by the arm and spins me around so fast, I gasp as I crash into his chest, my hand landing on his shoulder for balance.
Jonathan stares down at me with darkness so tangible, I can feel the smoke emanating from him and surrounding me in a halo.
That’s what Jonathan is — smoke. You can’t grasp him or escape him. The moment you think you’re safe, he comes out of nowhere and thickens with the intent of suffocating you.
“I have already said this and it’s the final time I’ll repeat it. If I ask a question, I expect a direct answer.”
“And if I have none?” My voice is breathy, small, wrong.
Damn you, voice.
“Then —” he reaches his other hand and grabs my arse cheek “— I’ll spank this arse.”
I instinctively push against him. Memories from last night flash before my eyes and it takes all my will to hold in the foreign sound fighting to get free.
“Now, is that fucking understood?”
“Yes,” I mutter so he’ll let me go.
It’s not about being spanked, it’s about the damn pulsing between my legs since he touched me or the promise that he’ll repeat what happened last night.
It’s about how I can’t stop thinking about the same fingers that are now clutching my wrist being inside me. Or that veiny, strong hand coming down on my soft flesh.
“Good girl.” Jonathan lets my arm fall and I step back on damn wobbly feet.
Why the hell did he have to say those two words using that raspy tone? He’s toying with parts of me I didn’t even think could be toyed with.
“I’m not a girl.”
His lips twitch, almost as if he’s about to smile, but Jonathan doesn’t do those. Not really. “Yes, you are.”
“I’m twenty-seven.” I don’t know why I need that information out there.
Maybe it’s my brain’s way to remind me that he’s seventeen years older than me.
Or that my sister, the only person I still consider family, had him first.
Or that we’re in her room.
The fact that Jonathan kept her room as it was without attempting to get rid of anything means one thing: he’s not over her death.
That’s why he wants me. I’m his sick way of bringing Alicia back to life.
I hate him for putting me in this position.
I hate him for barging through doors even I didn’t have the keys to.
Most of all, I hate him. The man. The tyrant. The unfeeling bastard who couldn’t protect Alicia.
“I know your age.” He slips his hand back in his pocket. “I also know you’ve been a ghost since you were sixteen.”
I thin my lips even when my scar tingles underneath my clothes.
“How does it feel to be a ghost, Aurora?”
“Peaceful.”
“Is that how you spell fake?”
“I’m not fake.”
“Is that why you invented a whole new persona, new name, new background, and even new habits?”
“Do you have a point here?”
“Does your black belt friend know about Clarissa?”
“Don’t you dare, Jonathan.”
“I do not care for being threatened, so for that alone, I might drop in unannounced and tell her.”
“Jonathan…d-don’t…” I’m ready to beg him, but I know that won’t work. Layla and her family need to stay the fuck away from my past. I can’t counter their kindness with malice.
“She’s a Muslim, no? Do you know their take on murderers and accomplices?”
“I’m not an accomplice.”
“Then what are you?” His voice drops in range. “Why did you disappear?”
“Because I needed a rebirth.”
17
Jonathan
A rebirth.
Fascinating.
I stare down at Aurora’s defiant gaze, but I don’t see the façade she’s spent so long perfecting.
I don’t see her stand-offish reaction to me or how she challenges me like it’s her favourite sport.
Now, I see the girl who hid behind her sister’s dress. The girl who was innocent and then was tarnished so badly that she wished for a rebirth.
But she didn’t only wish for it. She made it happen.
Or so she thinks.
Even as a grown-up, there’s still a spark in Aurora’s eyes. Granted, it’s not the same as the brightness of that little girl’s. It’s almost like an update — a second version of sorts.
She thinks she’s had a rebirth, though.
That is fascinating.
People’s misconceptions about themselves or the world surrounding them is a form of weakness I latch onto without mercy.