My stomach drops at the qualifier. I pull in a long breath, step back, and lock my hands on my head. Twisting toward the dark, I scan the space slowly, trying to imagine her reaction and muster the courage to face it.
Let me in, Milo.
The blankets, ripped and faded. The floor, cold and dusted with ancient debris. If she sees this, she’ll know. She’ll see the depths of who I am to deserve this ugly eternity. How can the master of a dungeon like this be responsible for anyone’s light?
I love you. Let me in.
My gaze snaps to hers, absorbing the compassion and longing flowing from her features. How can I deny her? Does she deserve anything less than the truth about what I am? I close my eyes and try to breathe as I let go.
The gasp comes first.
Then the tremors. I stop looking when her expression breaks into more than I can handle. She wanted to see, but I’m not strong enough for the fallout. So I stand still, frozen at the entrance to my room as she explores the small space with wide eyes. Even when she steps past me, I manage to keep my distance, face hard against the pain in hers.
“You… live here?”
She drags her fingers over the rusted basin, along the dusty remains of the boilers. Her floral crown that one day must have been in my head, because her reaction to the shelves of decrepit junk isn’t that of one who’s explored it before. Her eyes glisten in the dim light of the fading dusk when I dare a fleeting look in her direction. I hate that her heart is breaking for me when I’m supposed to be the protector. I think about her own prison. Bright, vibrant and heavy with death.
But when she stops moving, hands covering her mouth, I put aside my shame. She falls against me when I open my arms.
“I don’t want to die,” she whispers.
I squeeze my eyes shut, folding her as close as I can. “I know, angel.”
“I’m scared.”
I nod, out of comforting words. Until she says,
“I don’t know if I can spend eternity in a basement.”
“No!” I swallow the pain rushing up my throat. “No, you won’t. You won’t. Rachel, look at me.” I lift her chin, my heart shattering at her large, glossy eyes. “I earned this. I deserve this. You…” I shake my head. God, I can’t even think of an image good enough for what’s waiting for her.
But it won’t be with you.
I meet her gaze again, heavy tears slipping down her cheeks. “Is that my choice?” she whispers. “Because I can’t think of a darker place than apart from you forever.”
I have no response to that. I’m fucking broken.
“Is that our only choice?”
I shake my head. I want to speak. So many things but…
“Say it. Say I’m right!”
I close my eyes.
“Say it!”
She shoves me, and I let the weak push force me back. Still, I don’t speak. My throat won’t release the words it’s supposed to. This is the moment I convince her to let me go, right? The moment I choose to carry the weight for both of us?
“Admit it, Milo! Admit the truth! Why aren’t you saying anything?”
My cheek stings when she slaps me. This twisted destiny has healed and broken us. Built our paradise only to rip it away. It’s the real enemy, the offender burning my cheek with violence and staining hers with tears.
Suddenly, she falls into my arms again, and I crush her tight.
The right words start to form in my head. Work their way through the maze and down into my mouth. I pull in a deep breath, needing to release them.
“The truth? I saw it, Rachel. I saw the pure light when it came for Lena. When it comes for you, I’ll be a distant memory.”
“No! Never.”
Her tears smear my shirt when she shakes her head.
Tell her, Milo. Tell her the truth and let her go. I draw in a ragged breath.
“I know it’s hard to believe, but I’ve seen it. I can’t explain it. But once the light comes, nothing else matters. Nothing. It’s pure joy. Pure peace and contentment.” My voice even pushes enough wonder through the rasp of pain to be believable. “You just have to trust me.”
She looks up, eyes searching. “Really?”
“You won’t even know you’re gone.”
She studies me in the silence. “You promise?” she whispers.
I blink, capturing everything I can of this moment in order to survive on it later. Finally, I lean close, forcing air into my lungs. “I swear it to you, angel,” I breathe against her lips.
Chapter Twenty-Four:
Decisions
I awake to frantic shaking long before the sun has signaled a new day. I blink away the sleep and roll toward the action. Old terror rushes back at the presence of large white orbs, and I push against the hands reaching for me.
“Milo!”
“Rachel?” I suck in a breath and try to calm my racing heart. “What is it?” I’m fully awake now, the blankets shifting to my waist when I bolt up. Maybe the terror I felt just a second ago wasn’t mine. Her wide eyes reveal everything in the dark.
“I heard them talking. My parents and Dr. Ryan.” The orbs shine with fresh tears reflecting in the moonlight. She sinks against my bare chest, and now I’m the one shaking. I want to beg her to stop talking. If she doesn’t say it, we can cuddle back to sleep and dream of a world where there’s a happy ending for us.
“They’re terminating life support in three days.”
Stale air pushes its way into my lungs. I’m a prisoner to her declaration and all the painful implications crashing down on us.
“They said the cardiac event that killed me a few days ago was too much. They’re sure I’ll never come back, but they’re hoping for a miracle…”
My brain launches into impossible math. I can’t process it, though, so I look on with strange detachment, considering things like the old boiler and whether it required regular maintenance like newer adaptations. How exactly do boilers work anyway? I like the idea of shoveling coal or wood into the machine to operate it. Control. That’s the element that’s missing in modern technology.
“Milo?”
I blink back to bloodshot eyes and tearstained cheeks I can now see clearly in the dim light. My ribs feel like they’re cracking as I’m transported back to a time when monsters like Sinclair determined my fate and used me until I bled out. That’s what happened, didn’t it? Life drained from my body until I became a performing corpse. It wasn’t until I found Rachel—this connection—that light transformed me into a man worthy of an angel. And now?
Rachel’s expression has changed when she forces me to look at her again. Her fingers rest on my jaw, holding my gaze to hers. Was she in my head just now? God I hope not. And yet, maybe that’s exactly where she needed to be.
“How can you doubt?” she whispers. “How can you question fate when it’s healed you so fully?”
“You. Not fate.”
She shakes her head. “A higher power brought us together for a reason. I didn’t have to come to you or you to me. I needed you just as much. We healed each other.”
I close my eyes. “Don’t talk in the past tense.”
She grips my chin to force my eyes open. “We need to accept it. We knew this was coming. We need to face the end.”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Milo…”
I throw back the covers and reach for the guitar. She stops her protest when she notices the change in me, and I force a smile. “No, because there is no end. That’s the truth, and that’s why we live these next three days like they’re the beginning.”
“Again,” she says, grinning up at me. I have the guitar balanced over her lap, reaching awkwardly around her as she’s settled back against my chest. I’ve never played guitar with another person sandwiched between the instrument and me before. I wouldn’t have it any other way. She molds her fingers over mine, stroking gently and forcing my fingertips against the frets.
“I can’t hold the chord when
you do that,” I tease against her ear. The little rebel only intensifies her touch. I suck in a breath when her other hand presses into my thigh, sliding up at an agonizing rate.
“Play,” she commands. I close my eyes, my body tense and aching from her touch. Her hand moves higher, almost resting between my legs now, still massaging and exploring like we’re two teenagers discovering forbidden places.
“Milo, play!” She squeezes hard, eliciting a hiss of air from my lungs.
“Okay. Damn,” I gasp out, and start strumming. Her shoulders relax at the sound of the guitar, but her hand shows no mercy. No, that only digs further encouragement with each progression. I can’t tell who’s benefiting the most from this sensual duet we have going on, but my throat closes around a moan when she starts tracing the dragon she so loves and slips her hand into my jeans. My fingers fall from the frets, my body pushing into her touch. This time she shows mercy and lets the guitar stay on the blankets as she shoves me down beside it. I watch in wonder as she pulls off her gown, revealing the statuesque beauty that haunts my dreams. She’s not an angel now. She has to be a goddess with that impish smile playing on her lips.
“Damn you’re perfect,” I mumble, taking her in with my eyes, then my fingers that slowly push over her skin. She rocks gently on my hips, hardening my body into delicious anticipation. Her gaze devours me with the same hunger, running over my arms and bare chest like I’m too precious to touch. It drives me crazy when all I want is her hands on me. Her scan stops where our bodies connect just below my open zipper. She stops moving as well, her expression growing serious despite the raging heat.
“It’s dangerous, isn’t it? What I feel for you?” Her eyes move back to mine as she leans down.
I force in a breath, harder now the way she presses her hands against my chest.
“It has to be wrong to want something so much.” She’s still talking, and I’m still mesmerized by the way the light reflects off her hair and casts accenting shadows over her face. More to draw. A masterpiece, I think briefly before her lips push all thoughts from my head. Too much thinking, that’s my curse for later. For now, I own the world.
I reach into her hair, guiding her movements on my hips with gentle tugs at her roots. When she groans, I know it’s time to take over. We’ve had each other before, but this time is new, and I want everything. I want to give everything.
We switch positions, her toes catching the open waist of my jeans to help shove them down. Impressive really, but impatience can be an innovative beast. I kiss down her stomach and look up for permission at the end. I grin at her expression. She looks ready to smack me if I don’t hurry. But we have at least sixty hours left, and if we spend the entire thirty-six hundred minutes in this position, I’m fine with that. Patience is one of the few virtues I have.
Her gasps become moans, controlling my pace with the sweetest notes I want to capture in a song when we finish. To hear her haunting voice sing this moment wrapped around mine? I’m granite at the thought. Sixty hours. We can accomplish that in sixty. Well, fifty-nine.
“Milo…” She groans out my name as her body bucks to the pressure of my touch. Against her wishes, I take my time readjusting to a stretched position over her. She looks almost angry when I finally reach her goal, and ready to smack me again when I show my amusement.
“We don’t have all day,” she mutters.
“Actually, we do.”
“You know what I mean. And what I want.”
“Do I?” I arch a brow, more to annoy her than anything. She’s practically panting now, waiting for me, and maybe she does shove my shoulders in a playful protest.
I sigh, supporting my weight with one hand so I can run the other over her cheek. She quiets as my fingers move down her chin to her neck. Her expression changes, probably reflecting mine. Playtime is over. What’s left is a desperation to preserve this moment. This angel.
“Milo?”
“Yeah?” My fingers tickle the skin around her breasts, and I watch the goosebumps rise along her arm. She reaches up and does the same to my lips, staring with an awe that makes my heart pound.
“Will you sing to me?”
“Now? What about—”
“During, I mean. I want it all at once this time. Sight, sound, touch, feel… taste. I want your entire being.”
I swallow, studying a face that glows with sincerity. “I don’t know if I can. I’ve never tried it before.”
“You can. At least, I want to hear the moment your voice breaks from being with me.”
Something burns behind my eyes. Hot and beautiful, sad and hopeful. Does the emotion escape? I think so when her eyes cloud in response.
“I will if you do it too.”
“Sing?”
I nod, imagining what it would be like to connect with someone on that level, all at once.
Her chest rises and falls in a heavy breath, also mirroring mine. “Yes. We’ll do it together.”
“Which song?” I ask.
“There’s only one, right?”
I smile and brush a kiss on her lips before I start moving—and singing the first verse of “Haunted Melody.”
Somehow we make the moment last for the entire duration of the song, coming together in a final rush that breaks us during the last tag. Our voices crack in unison, giving way to a roar of ecstasy that comes when the stars align in a perfect burst of light. Exhausted and trembling, I drop beside her, breathing hard and reaching for her hand. It’s shaking as well when I draw it to my lips, holding her fingers while they clamp around mine.
“Is this normal?” she asks quietly.
“What?”
“Sex. This kind of connection.”
“No.”
She glances over at my response, and I work to shove the rest away. I don’t want to ruin the moment with irrelevant truth.
“What was your life before this, Milo? I know you don’t want to talk about it, but you need to. I want to know everything and you need to share it.”
She props herself up on an elbow and studies my face. Her hair tickles my chest as she leans over me, tracing the tattoos and scars on my skin.
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” I say.
“Of course it matters. You promised me everything. Don’t you think the one thing you refuse to share is probably the most important thing?”
I look away, eyes narrowing on the wall before she tugs my face back. “Please, Milo. I can’t leave you without finishing this.”
Swallowing hard, I fight against her plea. It’s instinctive, this battle against the past. Wasn’t that the power of the visions? Forcing the past into the present in order to torture me in new, horrific ways? I thought she agreed I’m all paid up.
“You are. That’s why you need to talk about it and let it go. You still carry the weight,” she says softly, her fingers resting on an ugly scar along my ribs. I tried to have it worked into the guitar tattoo, and maybe it disguises it for those who don’t know my body like Rachel does. The guitar was designed to look like it’s embedded in my skin. The frets run along an artistic interpretation of exposed ribs. The real scar outlines the opening where it emerges from my chest.
She traces it now, lightly running from end to end in a careful pattern. Four inches it runs. Long enough that I should have met my end well before Sinclair took it with a revolver to the head.
“I’m the filthy snow, Rachel. The rancid, bruised remains of crystalized banks lining the street. That scar is from one of the many polluters in my life.”
“Sinclair?”
I shake my head and stare up at the ceiling. “His name was Billings. He thought he bought something he didn’t and used a knife to collect that debt when I fought back.”
She shudders. I feel her pain for me as her fingers move to the scar on my other side. It’s shorter but much thicker.
“This one too?” she asks.
I nod. “That one should have killed me too. Somehow the blade missed all vital organs.
They said I was lucky. Lucky,” I spit the word out, closing my eyes to recall the scene in vivid detail. The smell of rotting food from a nearby garbage can. The sting of the tile where I fell. The sound of panicked cursing when reality set in. The door crashing closed, leaving me alone in a pool of my own blood.
I look over into her fresh, wet eyes. She stares back with love and compassion. No judgment. No regret or fear or disgust. Just pain, my pain, and suddenly my breathing starts to come a little easier as well.
“And these?”
Burns. Small and perfect. Almost pretty the way they form flowers over my body. “Dad.”
She nods, seeming to ignore the silent tears rolling down her cheeks.
“I wasn’t an innocent victim, Rachel.”
Her eyes lift to mine, and I force my hand up, turning my palm to show her the back. I use the other to trace her finger over several puckered marks beneath the art on my knuckles and hand. “I couldn’t even tell you how many people I’ve left bleeding on sidewalks and floors.” I let go of her, unable to face her anymore. “How many hearts I’ve left broken and mangled.”
I think of Bev and the night a coldhearted bastard wrecked her because he could. Because it was the one ounce of control he had in his nightmare prison. She wasn’t the first. The second. The third or hundredth. She was the symbol that filth begets filth, and who knows what sequence I set off in her world that night. How many other victims I harmed through her anger and revenge meant for me.
And yet, once again, my breathing eases; my heartrate slows.
I quiet then, absorbing the strange sensation of a weight lifting off my chest. This feeling of being cleansed. I did those things. Those things were done to me. It’s as if accepting them takes away their power. As my past fuses into me, the reality shifts from a tightening vice into steel that I control. Strength, that’s what comes from the memories of a boy who’d had it stripped away. I’d been so afraid of my past, terrified of confronting the demons and what they could do to me even now. By facing it—accepting it—I’ve stripped its influence. What’s left for it to do to me once I let go of the guilt as well?
Haunted Melody: A Ghost Story Page 17