“Why would I be loving this? I hate seeing you this way. I never want you to be hurting like this, Hardin.”
He smiles and softly chuckles before lifting the bottle and pouring some liquor onto the couch cushions. “Did you know that rum is one of the most flammable of spirits?” he says darkly.
My blood runs cold. “Hardin, I—”
“This rum here is one hundred proof. That’s pretty damn high.” His voice is hazy, slow, and frightening as he continues to douse the couch.
“Hardin!” I exclaim, my voice growing louder. “What are you going to do then? Burn the house down? That isn’t going to change anything!”
Waving a dismissive hand toward me, he sneers, “You should go. No kids allowed.”
“Don’t talk to me like that!” Feeling brave, and slightly afraid, I reach for the bottle and grip the handle.
Hardin’s nostrils flare and he tries to loosen my grip. “Let go of it. Now,” he says through his teeth.
“No.”
“Tessa, don’t push me.”
“What are you going to do, Hardin? Fight me over a bottle of alcohol?”
His eyes go wide; his mouth opens in surprise when he looks at both of our hands playing tug-of-war.
“Give me the bottle,” I demand, tightening my grip on the handle of the large bottle. It’s heavy, and Hardin isn’t making it any easier, but my adrenaline is pumping, giving me the strength I need. Cursing under his breath, he pulls his hand away. I didn’t expect him to give in that easily, so as his weight is removed, the bottle slips from my hand and topples to the floor in front of us, spilling onto aged wood.
I reach for it as I suggest the opposite: “Leave it there.”
“I don’t see the big deal here.” He grabs the bottle before I can and pours more liquor onto the couch, then walks in a circle around the room, leaving a trail of flammable rum behind him. “This shithole is going to be demolished anyway. I’m doing the new owners a favor.” He looks at me and shrugs playfully. “This is probably cheaper anyway.”
I slowly turn away from Hardin and reach into my purse to find my phone. The battery warning symbol is flashing, but I pull up the only number that could possibly help us at this point. Keeping the phone in my hand, I turn back to Hardin. “The police will come to your mother’s house if you do this. You will get arrested, Hardin.” I pray that the person on the line can hear me.
“Don’t give a fuck,” he mumbles, his jaw clenched. He looks down at the couch, his eyes piercing the present to stare into the past. “I can still hear her screaming. Her cries sounded like a wounded fucking animal. Do you know what that sounds like to a little boy?”
My heart aches for Hardin, for both versions of him—the innocent little boy who was forced to watch his mother beaten and violated, and the angry, hurt man who feels like his only recourse is to burn down the entire house to rid himself of the memory.
“You don’t want to go to jail, do you? Where would I go? I would be stranded.” I don’t give a damn about myself, but hope that the idea will make him reconsider his actions.
My beautiful dark prince stares at me for a moment, my words seeming to have rattled him. “Call a cab now. Walk down to the end of the street. I’ll make sure you’re gone before I do anything.” His voice is clearer now than it should be, considering the amount of alcohol in his blood. But all I hear is him trying to give up on himself.
“I don’t have any way to pay for a cab.” I make a show of digging out my wallet and showing him my American currency.
His eyes pinch closed, and he chucks the bottle against the wall. It shatters, but I barely flinch. I’ve seen and heard this too many times in the last seven months to be shaken by it.
“Take my goddamn wallet and get. Out. Fuck!” In one swift motion he pulls his wallet from his back pocket and tosses it onto the floor before me.
I bend down and shove it into my purse. “No. I need you to come with me,” I say softly.
“You are so perfect . . . you know that, right?” He takes a step toward me and lifts his hand to cup my cheek. I flinch at the contact, and a deep frown sets on his beautifully tormented face. “Don’t you know that? That you are perfect.” His hand is hot against my cheek, and his thumb begins to move across the skin.
I can feel my lips trembling but I keep a straight face. “No. I’m not perfect, Hardin. No one is,” I quietly reply, my eyes staring into his.
“You are. You’re too perfect for me.”
I want to cry—are we back to this? “I’m not going to let you push me away. I know what you’re doing: you’re drunk, and you are trying to justify this by comparing us. I’m just as fucked-up as you.”
“Don’t talk like that.” He frowns again. His other hand moves up to my jaw and pushes into my hair. “It doesn’t sound right, coming from that beautiful mouth.” His thumb runs along my bottom lip, and I can’t help but notice the contrast between the way his eyes burn with dark pain and rage and his light and gentle touch.
“I love you, and I’m not going anywhere,” I say, praying to break through his drunken haze. I search his eyes for any hint of my Hardin.
“ ‘If two people love each other, there can be no happy end to it,’ ” he softly replies.
Instantly recognizing the words, I tear my eyes from his. “Don’t quote Hemingway to me,” I snap. Did he think I wouldn’t recognize it and know what he was trying to do?