Pyromancist (Seven Forbidden Arts 1)

“I told my mother to leave the bastard on the floor, and I sent my brother to bed.” He rested his head in his hands. “I took off to the beach and drank a lot. I didn’t think my father would come to his senses so soon. When he did, he was in a rage. He went hunting for me in the house, and when he found my room empty, he took his shotgun.”

It was too late to stop him now. The confession had tied them together. He was forcing her to see him too, to see all of him. All she could do for him was listen.

“He shot my brother first,” he said. “At least, that was what the autopsy said.” His mouth twisted. “In his fucking bed, just like the coward my father was. The only solace is that my brother must’ve been asleep. My mother must’ve woken from the noise. Her body was in the hallway. Then my father went back to bed and painted the walls with his brains. That’s how I found them when I got home wrecked and careless. Fucking careless. Selfish.”

He lifted his eyes to hers, the gray splintering and sorrow seeping through the cracks. “Now tell me again I don’t deserve the nightmares.”

Hearing him confess the facts she already knew was so much worse. The pain was right there, in front of her eyes, not a concept in her head, and it was unbearable to watch. No longer vague detail censured and conveyed by Erwan, the truth felt raw. She hadn’t known all of it, though. She hadn’t known about the beatings. No one did. Everyone suspected when Joss’s mother turned up in town with bruises on her arms and legs, but she always had excuses. She tripped over a step or slipped on a rug. No one challenged his mother when she lied. No one pressed harder, because no one wanted to get involved. No one cared. Not really. Her heart broke a little more for him.

“Your father did terrible things,” she said. “The only heritage he left you with is guilt, but the guilt isn’t yours to carry.”

His lips lifted in one corner. The almost-smile was sad, a consolation that seemed to be meant for her rather than himself. “You’re still so innocent, little witch.” His gaze trailed over her face. “So naïve.”

“That’s not fair.”

“None of it is.” He leaned closer, whispering over her lips, “Life isn’t.”

She couldn’t move. Her heart and mind were on opposite sides of a rope, each pulling, stretching her thin. She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to let her go. They were playing a dangerous game. He was fire. Was she willing to go down in flames for him?

“There’s one way to make it better,” he said in a thick voice.

The plea hooked into her heart. She couldn’t rip it out without tearing a piece of her in the process.

“Lie down me with.” Cupping his hands around her head, he hooked his thumbs under her jaw. “Just for a little while.”

“I–I don’t—”

“Pretend it’s different. Pretend I’m good, and that you’re not scared.”

She swallowed. He was asking her to lie for him. It was wrong, but didn’t she always want him to corrupt her?

She didn’t stop him when he pushed her down. When her back hit the mattress, she didn’t move to the edge against the wall. She lay quietly as he stretched out on top of her, her heart sighing at how their bodies fitted. The mattress dipped under his weight, but he kept most of it on his elbows.

“I won’t fuck you,” he said, stroking her hair like one would pet a frightened kitten. “I just want to hold you.”

Someone to hold. How much she wanted—needed—that too. The captive finding solace in her captor’s arms. How ironic. But she needed something in return. “Promise me.”

He looked at her like the world outside the walls didn’t exist. “Anything.”

“When it’s time, I choose how.”

His breathing quickened, the air he exhaled warm on her face. “Stop thinking about that. I don’t want to kill you.”

“But you will if you must.”

“Shh,” he said, pressing his forehead against hers. “Tell me a secret.”

She folded her hands around his neck. It seemed like such a natural thing to do in the circumstances. “You know all of them.” Every one that mattered.

He rubbed a thumb over her lips, tracing the movement with his eyes. “Tell me one.”

The caress felt right. The way he held her was new, but it felt familiar. It didn’t matter who they were, him the hunter and she the prey, because stripped down to its core, the moment was real. He’d burned down the bridges of the worlds that separated them when he’d given her his vulnerability. He’d created this bubble, this fragile piece of honesty in a nightmare riddled with questions and deceit. It would be gone by morning, the gilded coach turning back into a pumpkin. Would it be so wrong to take what he was offering?