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She blinked twice, copying Woodrow’s actions whenever he agreed to something.
“I’m sorry, Cat,” I whispered against her skin. “I’m so fucking sorry for everything you’ve had to go through because of me. For every time your heart or one of your bones were broken because you were forced to learn a painful lesson. I’m sorry that I lied to you by not telling you our history because I’ve always been selfish when it comes to you.”
Sad eyes stared up at me, glossy and lifeless.
“Dream?” I choked on the word, sounding younger than I was.
A second passed.
“Catharina? Say something. Say anything.” A single tear fell on her face from my eye.
“Remi...”
I pulled my eyes from her for a second, more tears falling.
Dec stared back at me, his face wet, too, drowning in the emotion all over it. “Are we too late, man?”
“Fuck, no, Dec! I can’t fucking lose her.”
“She’s not moving.” His eyes drifted between her and the road.
“We are seconds away from Beyond Heaven. Just put your fucking foot down!”
He was already going as fast as he could.
“I don’t think she’s breathing,” I whispered, unsure if he heard me. “I don’t think she’s fucking breathing!”
Chapter 67
Catharina
Remi’s voice faded out mid-conversation with Dec as I stared up at his face and all the worry there, concentrating on how his mouth moved and his eyes squinted while I tried to force myself to stay alert.
A pain gripped me, and my own face contorted.
He comforted me.
My body, lighter in his arms, felt like I was floating somewhere between life and death, holding on to earth through the person wrapped so tightly around me.
My heart slowed, another flash of my life going too quickly before my eyes.
The air conditioner blasted, my nipples peaking with the cold as I entered the room, pure determination driving each step.
Rothbart had no home-field advantage here, in this vacant club.
Llewrehtom and Joseph hung around the bar in the distance like pigs around a water hole. A man whom I’d avoided—and not even looked at—because he smelled like bad news and cigarettes texted backstage, the irritating ping of his phone still annoying my ears when familiar songs invaded, brought by a melodic rasp.
Remi.
For the first time in years, seeing him now was like a kick to the face, and it almost caused the mask to slip from my face—the blank expression that showed these freaks nothing.
I schooled myself, closing my gaping mouth.
The chorus picked up, the tone of Remi’s words making it a struggle to block them out.
His eyes were on me as I stepped out in nothing but a pair of heels that hurt me even more than Rothbart’s hands as I sank to my knees, and he fisted my hair, dragging me closer. He dropped the strands of red, and the music stopped.
Remi sat center stage, a pink pick stalling between guitar strings. His mouth hung open, no beautiful sound coming out. I tried not to look at him or the scar I’d put on his face.
