Coldhearted (9781311888433) (44 page)

He ignored her suffering. “I don’t
understand,” he said, keeping a stranglehold over her. He was
running his hot fingertips up and down her spine. “Alone, I feel so
cold, but with you, holding you in death, the heat is almost
unbearable.”

“
Then let go of me,” she
suggested in a growl, and succeeded in struggling out of his
grasp.

So…he wasn’t all that powerful. She’d gotten
away. Despite this, she needed to know if he could be restrained.
So she grabbed his hand and refused to let go, even when it felt
like her hand was burning to a crisp. He realized what she was
doing and tried to pull away, but she held on, refusing to let him
go. It wasn’t love. If she let him go, he’d kill again. She’d
failed to save Mason. There was blood on her hands. She wasn’t
going to darken it any further by allowing Tristan to escape and
kill again.

Tristan fell on his knees, weakened. “I
surrender,” he said, sounding defeated.

She released his hand. “It’s over,” she told
him. “You’ll never leave. I’ll never let you.”

“
I know,” he said, and then
stood up. He was frowning, until a devious smile spread across his
face. “Well, Edie, how should we spend our eternity together?” His
eyes darted up the stairs, where the bedrooms were located, and
then back at her, his blues twinkling with mischief. “Wanna see my
room?”

“
Yes,” she said, to his
surprise. “I want to take a nap.” She felt really tired.

Tristan furrowed his brow, confused. “A nap?
But you’re dead.”

She ignored his observation and swept past
him, going up the stairs and down the hall toward the last room on
the left; she just knew where his bedroom was located. She opened
the door and entered a dark chamber; the curtains were closed,
forbidding the moonlight to enter.

She found a lamp near the door and switched
it on; the light was dim, weak, but she was able to see the bed,
before her; it was unmade and dusty. She noticed that it wasn’t the
same bed that’d been in her dream and in her vision when he’d made
her kiss Russell.

The room was different too. She wondered if
Tristan had conjured up a more romantic setting, displeased with
the one from his memory.

She shook the bed sheets clean of dust, or at
least, as clean as she could get them, fluffed the pillows, and
then lay down atop the covers, fully dressed; the mattress was hard
and cold, just like Tristan’s personality. She laid her head
against the pillow and closed her eyes.

The bedroom door creaked open further and the
hallway light (he’d flipped a switch) spilled into the room.

“
You’re weird,” Tristan said
in an amusing, kindhearted way.

She opened her eyes to see him leaning
against the doorframe. “You’re bad,” she said, but lacking in
endearment, and then closed her eyes.

She heard him approach, along with the creak
of the box springs, as he sat beside her onto the mattress. “Don’t
girls love bad boys?”

“
Not ones who commit
murder,” she said in a tone, keeping her eyes closed.

She could hear him settling back against the
headboard, leaving a small distance between their bodies. He was
lying atop the covers.

“
You know, I’ve always
fantasized about having a girl in my bed.”

“
Oh, yeah?” she said
sleepily.

“
Yeah, but when I’ve
imagined it, we were alive,” he said dryly.

She opened her eyes and faced him. “Was it
Arianna or some girl you’d never met?”

He gave her a smile. “It was you.”

“
Liar,” she accused, and
turned her back to him.

She could feel him edging closer, and then
his arm wrapped around her waist, holding her against him. She
could feel the heat magnify when their bodies touched.

He kissed her ear. “It was you,” he said. “I
saw you before I’d even met you.”

“
In your bed?” she said,
rolling her eyes, even though he couldn’t see.

“
In my bed,” he admitted.
“In my life; in my mind, we were inseparable. I loved you, and you
loved me back.”

“
You’re right: that was a
fantasy.”

He kissed her cheek and she blushed. “You’re
not as cold as you used to be,” he jested. “You’ll love me
yet.”

She turned on her back and stared up at him,
hovering over her. “You’re a monster, Tristan, and I’ll never, ever
love you. I’m not here because I want to. I’m here because I need
to. You needed to be stopped, and my death was the only way to
ensure that. We’re not bound by love, but shackled out of
necessity; a necessity to keep you in prison, while I watch you,
day and night.”

He smiled, despite her cold words. “So you
can keep an eye on me in your sleep? You are truly wondrous,
then.”

She sighed, aggravated. “I wasn’t really
going to sleep. I just wanted to relax, to rest.”

“
I know,” he said softy,
understanding. “The dead don’t sleep. Maybe that’s why we moan all
the time, wailing, because we’re never at rest. Or is that only in
books and movies?” he mused.

She slapped a hand over his mouth. “Did you
talk this much when you were alive?”

He kissed her palm, and before she could jerk
her hand away, he had her by the wrist, pinning her arm above her
head. He eyed the curve of her breast beneath her sweater, exposed
in the position that he’d forced her to take. She made no move to
restrain him and she didn’t know why.

“
I’d much rather kiss,” he
said, pressing his body against hers.

“
Over my dead body,” she
said, not intending to make a joke.

He laughed anyway. “Well, I’ll have you any
way I can.”

He dipped his head, and she pushed her back
deeper into the mattress in a futile attempt to get away from him.
He tried again to press his lips against hers, but she turned her
face and denied him access. So he dove for her neck, trailing
kisses up it, and then across her cheek, until he snaked his way to
her lips. She clenched them shut, but he forced them open, sliding
his tongue into her mouth, as he consumed her with a passionate
kiss, conquering her fully. Finally, he released her and pulled
away. Her lips actually hurt from his exquisite torment.

“
Do you love me now?” he
asked, staring into her eyes.

“
I hate you even more.” She
turned her back to him, ashamed of what she’d done.

“
Bitch,” he spat, and then
left the room, slamming the door.

A few minutes later, he reentered and
apologized, adding, “Can I stay with you tonight?”

“
It’s your room,” she
said.

She watched as he gingerly sat on the edge of
his own bed, keeping a sizable distance between them.

****

They stayed like that for a very long time,
in silence.

She didn’t know what he was thinking—probably
who to murder next—but she pondered as to why she still had her
body. She came to the conclusion that since Tristan was corporeal
when she’d died, she’d become corporeal too, considering they’d
been attached (and still were).

But he had the added ability to kill just by
touch. She started to worry that she had the same ability, and
she’d hurt someone unintentionally, but then she remembered that
she’d never see or touch another living person again.

She missed Uncle Landon and wished that she’d
stayed awake to listen to the rest of his story. She worried for
him. He’d lost his brother, her mom—who he’d always been in love
with—and now, Edie. His answer was to fall into the world of
horror. Edie just hoped that when he learned of her death, he
wouldn’t fall deeper into that dark void, where it was certain to
swallow him whole.

She missed Diana, Madelyn, Jules, and Quinn.
She even missed Gunnar, Rory, Bree, and Amee, even though they’d
met briefly. And of course she missed Mr. Ballantine, Russell to
her, a descendant of the Lockharts, who despite the assured
scandal, wanted to be with her. She knew that his love or better
yet, his lust was nothing more than Tristan’s twisted influence.
But Adrian—when he’d possessed Russell—had spoken of fate and soul
mates. That was absurd. He’d been wrong. My soul mate is dead.

She missed Mason most of all. He’d never been
compelled to love her. He just had. He’d been her first love, and
she’d lost him, before she’d really gotten the chance to know him.
She wasn’t an expert on ghost studies, but she assumed that Mason’s
spirit—if it’d been separated from his body—was wandering around
the school’s gym, lost and all alone. She hoped not. She hoped that
when he’d died, his spirit had gone to Heaven, despite what her
uncle had said about souls staying with their bodies until the
Resurrection.

Wherever Mason was, she hoped that he wasn’t
suffering. She hoped that he was at peace.

If only I had such a peace.
If only I could be with him in this mysterious
afterlife
.

Chapter 30

Hours or days had passed.

She couldn’t tell exactly, but she knew that
time had moved forward. She’d died at night and now it was morning.
The sun was shining through an open space of curtains inside
Tristan’s bedroom.

It was enough light to illuminate a mahogany
bookshelf against the wall, its shelves packed with leather-bound
books. One book was missing. Tristan was holding it open, as he sat
on a cushioned bench, below a bay window. The curtains to it were
drawn. He was reading by lamplight.

She sat up on the edge of the bed. “What are
you doing?” she asked him.

Tristan looked up. “I’m sorry,” he apologized
sincerely. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

She blinked. “I fell asleep?”

Tristan closed his book, not bothering to
bookmark the page that he’d been reading. He remained sitting on
the cushioned bench. She wondered if that’d been his spot of
serenity when he’d been alive at Lockhart Manor. Though she didn’t
know why he’d needed a refuge. By Adrian’s account, Tristan had
grown up in a loving home.

“
Yes,” he said, and then
added, “well, not asleep, really, but your eyes were closed, and
you seemed…at peace.”

She furrowed her brow, confused. “I don’t
feel like I’ve even woken.”

She got up, not needing to stretch or yawn,
and went to a window, separating the curtains. The sun was rising
in the east; by its position, she estimated the time to be around
eight in the morning.

Uncle Landon must be
worried. I never came home last night
.

“
I envy you,” Tristan said.
“Being able to rest…you looked so beautiful.” He smiled. “Of course
you always look beautiful.”

She didn’t respond to his compliment, but she
did turn toward him, nodding with her chin at his book. “What are
you reading?”

Tristan opened his mouth, hesitated, and then
replied, “A journal I used to keep.”

“
Oh,” she said,
surprised.

He went on. “I didn’t have anyone to talk to,
but I needed to express myself, so I wrote; not only my feelings,
but stories too, of distant lands, where I wished I lived, instead
of this one.” He sounded so sad. “I used to keep it hidden under my
mattress, and I wrote every day until…until…” He trailed off, stood
up, and returned the thick journal to the bookshelf.

It seemed like he’d taken it
down and read it many, many times over the years. It was the only
one, besides the book
The Pilgrim’s
Progress
that stood next to it, not caked
in dust.

He turned and stared at her, hands into his
pockets, waiting for her to say something.

“
Why did you kill your
parents? Why do you hate your brother so much?” she interrogated,
feeling bold.

Tristan flared his nostrils, angry.
“Because,” he replied vaguely.

“
That’s not an answer,” she
said.

“
That’s all the answer
you’re ever going to get,” he said in a hard tone.

“
When you were alive, why
did you hate your life so much?” she went on.

He shut his mouth, refusing to answer.

“
Why do you hate yourself?”
she surmised, using the present tense.

No response.

“
Did you really love
Arianna? Were you heartbroken when she chose Adrian and not you? Is
that when you began your downward spiral? Is that when you snapped?
Is that why you created imaginary worlds to escape to? Did you not
want to function in a world without Arianna? Is she a character in
your stories? Are you the hero, and Adrian, the villain? Do you get
the girl in the end?” Edie rambled on, asking question after
question, knowing that she’d never get a response.

She was wrong. Tristan opened his mouth to
speak. The first word he said was “bitch,” and then he continued in
a more gentlemanly manner.

“
I would’ve never fallen for
Arianna if she didn’t give me hope that we’d be
together.”

“
What?” Edie asked, shaking
her head.

Tristan didn’t immediately respond. Instead
he began pacing the room, hands into his pockets, looking down, as
he walked back and forth. Finally, he stopped, but kept his eyes on
the tracks that he’d made into the carpet.

“
We were children when she
told me.”

“
Told you what?”

Now he looked up at Edie. “That she loved
me,” he replied with sad eyes. “I was her first kiss, did you know
that? Not Adrian. She said one day, we’d be married with children.
She said that she’d been writing her new name, over and over again:
Arianna Lockhart.”