Beauty, a Hate Story the End

It had been in between the goddamn floorboards the entire time.

What fucking irony.

“I don’t believe you,” she said, attempting to yank herself out of his grip. “I don’t. You’re just saying this to cover up what’s really in the letter. You’re fucking lying. You made up this disgusting lie.”

She wouldn’t look at him, but Anteros pinned his gaze on her.

Fuck, just look at me.

The silence was too much. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her everything would be okay—shit people did when they loved the person—but she was closing off to him. With a frustrated growl, Anteros pushed her off and walked to the stack of books the letter fell from, feet making harsh echoes in the silent room.

Once he found it, he walked back and handed her Sofia’s journal entry. “Unfortunately everything you need to know is in a journal I can no longer locate, but this will give you an idea. I imagine if you could ask Lucia herself, her face would tell you all you need to know. This was one secret she could never hide.”

Warily, Frankie took the journal entry from his grasp. Her eyes were slits as she took it, glancing away from him in short spurts. Then they froze.

“You knew about Sofia’s journal?” Surprise laced her tongue.

“I had it in my possession for many years,” he responded, then stopped, recognition hitting him with what she’d said. “You knew about her journal?”

“It was the only thing that got me through living with you,” she spat, venom in her voice. So that was what had happened to it. He thought about what she’d said. The journal had been the only thing that got him through his early years with Lucio.

Frankie briefly looked at the entry before saying, “You know what? I don’t need to read this. Go fuck yourself and your gross theories—oh, and PS, if you’re going to try to rattle me, get ideas somewhere other than Game of Thrones.”

Her reference went over his head so Anteros said, “I don’t understand.”

“You had leather-bound editions.”

“I told you some of my books were gifted,” Anteros explained.

She dragged a hand down her face. “Never mind.”

Anteros exhaled. “Just read it.” Nostrils flared and grip harsh on the book, Frankie didn’t remove her glare from him, fingers trembling like she wanted to throw the paper at him. Finally, after a minute or so of strained silence, she looked at the page.

Frankie read it furiously until horror slowly transformed her face.

“This still doesn’t mean anything.” She grasped it with white fingers. “This could be any child. It doesn’t mean it’s me.”

“I was there for your birth,” he said lowly. “I know for certain you are the child Sofia speaks of in the letter.”

“Are you even trying?” she asked. “I was born in Jersey.” She was at least looking at him again, her face growing the bright rose of anger he remembered. Good. He wanted her angry, wanted her mad—it was better than nothing.

“Now you’re deluding yourself, mio cuore,” Anteros responded gently.

“Don’t ever call me that again.” For a split second, their stare was charged. Anger transformed into lust, her lids drooped, and she licked her lips. Anteros thought the situation was salvageable, but then sadness and emptiness, replaced her furious features.

He wanted to scream until his lungs bled.

Wanted to break things until his bones broke like the way she looked at him.

But mostly, he wanted to go back to earlier, when she was opening to him, shedding her mask, and letting him see all of her.

Frankie let the page fall and ran from the room, pale soles disappearing around the entryway. Anteros had her before she’d barely turned the corner.

“Let me go,” she hissed as he pinned her to the wall.

“I won’t.” Ever again.

“Then kill me,” she said evenly, “because I won’t stay here willingly.” Her stare was black. Relentless. Dead. Anteros ground the hands at either side of her face into the cobblestone, getting so close that his nose flattened hers.