Marcus, who hadn’t cried out even when fingers were cut off before, suddenly panicked and lunged to shield her.
“Don’t touch her!” he shouted. “Melody, don’t make me fight you for real!”
That familiar expression, that familiar tone, it threw me back to the bloody night five years earlier.
When our enemies came for us then, fires raged everywhere, and ten bodyguards in the villa were slaughtered. Only Marcus and I were left. He stood between me and the attackers, red-eyed, then turned and gently covered my eyes.
“Don’t open them. I’m going to take them on. Don’t worry. I’ve got you new IDs. If I die, leave and start over.”
Blood dripped from our fingertips, each drop sounding like a tick against my nerves. He tore a corner from his shirt and bound the wound with practiced hands.
“Melody, don’t force me to hate you.”
That memory overlapped with eight years ago when he’d sliced my fiancé’s legs. He’d told me then, smiling, “Melody, hate me if you must. If you can’t love me, at least let hatred keep me in your heart. I want to remain there, whatever it takes.”
Maybe that was when what we had started to twist and go wrong, a bad beginning destined for a worse end.