Breaking Her (Love is War #2) (40 page)

It was some random dig he made over some silly thing that had me taking it a step too far, delving into things I wasn't ready for.
 

"God, can't you
ever
just say you're sorry?
 
For
anything
?" I asked him heatedly, but more than temper, there was pain in it.
 

"You want apologies?
 
I see.
 
What exactly should I apologize for?
 
Tell me, tiger, please.
 
Where would I
even
begin?"

Hello, temper.
 
Again.
 
Because every sentence out of his mouth held something in it, some bit of appeal that was the apology in itself, that told me he was sorry for everything, that somehow he'd taken it all on himself, added it to his cursed martyrdom, and I was supposed to have known it.
 

"I'll apologize for anything you ask," he said quietly, "but that's not the issue.
 
What you're missing is not my contrition, and I think you know it."
 

I waved him off.
 
"You're blowing things out of proportion."
   

"You need to find your faith in us again," he said with quiet intensity.
 

And just like that, he had me.
 
I'd gone from annoyed and argumentative to sad and desolate.
 
"I don't know how," I said, voice raw with the helplessness of it.
   

His eyes softened, and just like that I was in his arms.
 
We were out on the back porch, and he sat down in one of the loungers, cradling me on his lap.
 

He stroked a hand over my hair, then again.
 
"Do you remember when my touch used to comfort you?
 
Do you remember when it brought you peace?"
 

I couldn't even speak, my eyes closed.
 
I remembered too much.
 

It filled my whole being, the remembering.
 

Eventually I nodded, but not before rogue tears were seeping past my eyelids.
 

"I can be ruthless."
 
His voice was quiet but vehement.
 
"I can be mean.
 
I can be jealous, and wrathful.
 
I have a hellish temper."
 
Whisper soft, his fingers traced over my tears.
 
"We both know this too well.
 
There have been times where I was
so angry
with you that I didn't think I ever wanted to set eyes on you again."

He paused, just stroking and stroking my hair, his touch tender and steady, and it seemed he wanted some response from me.
 

Finally I nodded.

He continued.
 
"I can be manipulative, and I know I've done some things you don't agree with, things you don't understand.
 
Things that sorry does not, and will not, cover.
 
I know that at times your faith in me has been lost."
 

For some reason one tiny, hapless sob escaped me at his last sentence, and he paused for a moment, comforting me, before he continued.
 
"But search your heart, angel, and tell me, and yourself, if you believe that any of my actions, no matter how messed up, or misguided, no matter how
unforgivable
they may have been . . . Ask yourself, do you truly believe that any of the things I did weren't for you?
 
We can disagree on my methods, but do you have any doubts that what I did, I did to protect you?"

I didn't answer, just let him rock me, and stroke me, wipe my tears, and comfort me.
 
All the while, I was doing as he said, searching through my ravaged heart.
     

"Find the answer to that question, and you'll find your faith again."

I'd had my eyes closed for a long time, but when I opened them, I found him doing something that helped me to see the truth.
 

He was rubbing the chain around his neck, rolling the key and rings between his fingers—Gram's ring had been added—over and over, like it was a very old habit.
 
For the first time in years, I let my hand cover his, let the pad of my index finger trace over the objects, let it linger on them, remembering them.
 

His shoulder jerked as he shook off a shudder.
 
"You get it.
 
I know you do."

"You never took them off.
 
Even at the worst of it, you kept them on as reminders."
 

"Touchstones, yes.
 
They help to calm me.
 
And they help me remember what we are.
 
What we're supposed to be.
 
That no matter what, we'll find our way back to each other."

I was crying, but so was he.
 
"No matter what," I agreed quietly.
     

I'd been so blinded by my own hurt and fear for so long where he was concerned, but when I let go of my doubt, my pain, my insecurity, I really did know him.
 

His soul was mine and always had been.
 
I couldn't deny that if I tried now that the truth was out.
 

CHAPTER
 

THIRTY-SEVEN

"If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger."
 

~Emily Brontë

PAST

SCARLETT

Hollywood parties were the worst.
 
I hated them, had relegated them to one of the more miserable parts of networking in tinsel town.
 
A necessary evil that had to be borne with a big fake smile and plenty of liquor.
 

This one was being thrown in one of the trendy new clubs in Hollywood.
 
It was a big space, surprisingly well-lit for a den of iniquity, and it was full to the brim with people I needed to meet.
 

I was still taking it all in, scoping out the best place to mingle/network.
 
My bored eyes swept across the room for maybe the third time as I tried decide where I wanted to spend my energy and charm, when they landed on a pair of cold eyes that I had not expected to see again.
 

Eyes that were more familiar even than my own.
 

I froze, drink halfway to my parted lips.
 

No.
 
Oh no, please.
 
Not now.
 
I haven't had a moment to pull myself together.
 
It's not fair.
 
He's not allowed to see me first, to catch my initial reaction.
 

Because it would surely be the most telling.
   

I blinked, recovered, then took a long drink.
 

It had been well over a year since I'd seen him, and the things that had occurred since our last parting and now . . . I couldn't even stand to glance at him across a crowded room.

But some part of me, the lovesick, pathetic part that I'd have cut out of myself if it were possible, rejoiced at the sight of him.
 

And the way he looked then, it was something to behold.
 

There was a woman clinging to him, a beautiful black-haired woman, and as I studied her, I realized it was an actress.
 
No one terribly famous, more of an up and comer who was talked about often in the industry of late.
 
Her name was dropped in a lot of gossip rags for potential roles, but nothing she'd done had panned out in a big way yet.
 

Still, she was certainly more famous than I was.
 
No contest.
 
And he'd come here with her.
 
It was clearly the most hurtful scenario he could dream up.
 

Well, close to.
 
Tiffany would have been the
most
hurtful, obviously.
 

Always.
 

The actress was, of course, young and lovely, wearing a clingy, red Versace dress I could remember ogling in this month's Italian Vogue.
 
She was fashionable and beautiful and would likely be the next 'it' girl, and Dante barely seemed to notice that one of her perky little tits was trying to permanently meld itself into his bicep.

Of course the too good-looking for his own good Durant heir could have any woman he set his sights on.
 
I'd never had any doubts about that.
 

His eyes were on me, his body stiff, his fists clenched as he watched me like we were the only two people in the room, and just the sight of me had stopped him in his tracks.
   

I smiled.
 
Maybe there was some fun yet to be had in this misery trip down our fucked up memory lane.
 

I could do this.
 
I could suffer through this pain if it was for the sake of making him suffer with me.
 

Ah, love.
 
Isn't it grand?
 

I finished my drink and tore my eyes from his, seeking my date for the night.
 

Justin was a screenwriter who had developed a pretty devoted crush on me when I'd first moved to town.
 
He got me into all of the parties I hated to attend but could never say no to.
 
In exchange I'd been stringing him along rather relentlessly.
 

I spotted him doing a line off the bar a scant ten feet away.
 
He was still wiping his nose when I finally caught his eye.
 
I called him over with a crook of my finger.
 

He blinked a few times, swallowed hard, and came to me looking hopeful enough to stir some pity in me.
 

Not enough.
 
But some.
 

He was very cute, tallish and trim, but muscular, with nerdy glasses that only seemed to add to his boyish handsomeness.
   

"Darling, something's come up," I purred at him, grabbing the lapels of his jacket and moving our faces close.
 
"I've got to run."
 

He looked confused, but didn't ask questions and didn't try to stop me.
 
He was my favorite kind of man, the kind that let me do whatever the hell I wanted without protesting.
 
He was just happy to be along for the ride.
 

Until, of course, I left him on the side of the road, as I inevitably would.
 

I pressed my chest to his and gave him a brief, warm kiss.
 
It stirred nothing in me.
 

Hardly anything did these days.
 

It was a show, no more, but I could tell as I pulled away that he'd taken something from it that he shouldn't have.
 

I'd given him hope.
   

"When will I see you again?" he asked me.
 

I wanted to pat him on the head, the poor guy, but I just pursed my lips and shrugged.
 
"Who knows?
 
I'll text you sometime.
 
Or you can call me when there's another good party."
 

I walked away from him and headed straight for my real target.
 

It was pure misery to walk toward Dante, to make my body move closer to him instead of
away
, but at least there was some gratifying thrill to be had in the way he looked at me.
 
That little kiss had done the trick, taken him from incensed ex-lover to enraged mess.
 

Perhaps I'd win this round after all.
 

His date had stepped away, to network no doubt, and so it was easy to move right up to him.
 
I strutted close, not stopping until I was a mere foot away, going straight for the kill.
 

He was here to mess with me, so I'd mess right back.
 

And I happened to be better at making messes than he was, if I did say so myself.
 

I looked up into his face, letting every bit of the spite, the pure, concentrated hatred in my eyes pour out to him.
 

"If I were you, I'd stay far away from me," Dante warned.
   

The way his voice quavered, the weakness in him, the unchecked violence in every line of his body, was nothing but blood in the water.
 

I stepped closer with a smile.
 
"You're not me."
 
It was that simple and that devastating.
 
We were not one anymore.
 

We were two.
 
Two very separate people now with little to connect us.

And it was all his fault.

I was not done making him pay for that.

Not even close.
 

He was almost panting as I brushed my body against his.
 
"Your date is not going to be happy about this."
 
His voice was a low rumble, his eyes aimed over my head, at Justin, I presumed.
 

"No, he won't be.
 
He wants me, can you tell?
 
He's been obsessed with me for a while now and seeing me with you will only add to it.
 
But I'm too curious to pass this up.
 
What are you doing here?
 
Are you really going to try to tell me that this is a coincidence?"

"Yes," he lied, not even trying to convince me, his voice too full of raw emotion.
 
"I'm dating an actress, and she wanted me to come to one of her Hollywood parties.
 
That's the only reason I'm here."
 
He said it robotically, as though he'd rehearsed the phrase, but his delivery ruined it all.