✓ WICKED VOWS| JAKE (Book II )

46-My Own Destruction

I felt a storm under my skin.

"You want to talk about trust?" I whispered. My voice was barely audible as tension coiled tighter and tighter between us. "There is no trust, Jake. Not between us. We both know it." But even as my words were hard, the pain beneath them couldn't be denied.

That trust was a luxury neither of us could afford, not in the world we inhabited, and definitely not in our twisted version of a marriage. Jake's eyes seemed to darken further, anger smoldering beneath the surface; my heart beat quicker because of this close proximity. He leaned in closer, his lips nearly touching mine. 

"What the hell are we doing here, Ana? What in hell are we fighting for if there is no trust, no truth? What are we, if not liars trapped in a tragedy of our own making?", Just as his lips reached mine, I dug the gun farther into his ribs, feeling with a certain satisfaction his body tense up at the threat. "You are a little tragedy aren't you?" I stared him straight in the eye, and my words were laced with ice to cut through the heated moment. "I apologize," I husked, my words sharp as a razor, "but I don't kiss liars." The flicker of his surprise was momentary and opened before another flash of something darker, something speaking of frustration and desire intertwined. But before he could even react, I pulled myself away from him, my movement quick and decided, leaving a palpable void between us.

I took a step back as my eyes locked onto his, beginning my withdrawal toward the door. "Oh, and Jake," I added, my tone laced with bitter satisfaction as I reached the door, "You touched me. You lost your own bet."His narrowed, the eyes being a dangerous glint, lighting up in comprehension with my words. I saw Jude and Keith waiting for me outside the hospital; their faces were unreadable from the light of the evening sun.

Not a word passed between them, and not a glance was thrown my way as I walked by, the scream within louder than a voice. I could feel their eyes on me as I swung my leg over my bike; the engine snapped to life underneath me and was a welcome balm against the storm in my mind. I had to get out, separate as far as possible from this place, from the hospital, from Jake. I rode back home, but it was one blur with the wind whipping by me, carrying away every little bit of that confrontation with Jake. Still, no amount of riding would ever distance me from that turmoil.

By the time I got to the house, my body had become numb with cold and tension, wound so tightly around me that it felt like a physical vise. Actually, I did not raise my eyes to look at any of the familiar rooms; I couldn't face it—not now, not when every inch of this place felt like it was related to him. I needed space, somewhere that wasn't tainted by his presence, by his touch. I walked up to my old room. I didn't want to see any of his stuff or remember his words. I wish I could leave this damn house, but I was cradled in this marriage.

But even as I walked, the questions kept churning through me.

Why did I feel so hurt? Why was I so mad, not just at him, but at myself? How much I longed to go in and shut the door behind me, and be there all alone with that known comfort. But what I saw so sufficed to restrain me. Pouches or packets of indulgence scattered profusely all around; their sparkling countenances winked under the light. There were bears of every color, and every size, lying on the bed and scattered on the floor as well, their soft, plush bodies expecting to be embraced, be loved. Bags were full of toys and dolls of every description sat on the floor with blank eyes, looking, I seemed to notice, expectant. A few more steps inside, and my heart was hammering at what was before me.

A cartoon figure-figured tumbler stood on the nightstand, by a paint-brushed and shining-surfaced rocking Russian horse, illuminated in the soft light; there was a line of Russian folk dolls in bright, really colorful costumes. So here they are Matryoshka dolls—smaller replicas; probably this is an indication of how skilled and laborious the making of those things was. There was a kaleidoscope beside them, with its gleaming, multicolored patterns that would come to life at the simple twist.