Fable of Happiness (Fable #2) by Pepper Winters

It wouldn’t be a terrible master who beat and raped him that snuffed out his life.

It would be me.

The girl who’d spent the past week and a half by his bedside. The girl who believed she was falling for him. The girl who would never have been able to leave anyway.

In that savage flash of truth, I knew that despite my gumption, I would’ve hiked to the cliff face and placed one foot on its rocks, and I wouldn’t have been able to go any farther.

How could I?

I wasn’t cold-hearted enough. I couldn’t have been so callous to leave a concussed man alone in a forgotten valley.

I would’ve come back. I would’ve kissed him, helped him, taken my time to convince him to come with me. To turn his back on this place once and for all.

I would’ve come to him on my own accord.

And wasn’t that the saddest, cruelest thing?

He said he needed me.

Well, I’d needed him.

I’d wanted him.

I’d wanted to be more than just his friend. I wanted to be his savior.

But now?

Now he’d done this? Now he’d taken all choice from me and condemned my mother and brother to think I’d perished in some awful climbing accident?

Now, I hated him.

My heart closed to him. Any emotion I’d felt, any softness, understanding, and kindness all evaporated and hardened into stone.

We continued staring.

And he knew.

He saw the shutting down of my soul. He felt the ice creeping over my heart and nodded painfully as I braced my shoulders and reached for the bowl of pasta. Clinically, coldly, I stabbed a piece of ravioli and shoved it into my mouth.

I chewed as if I chewed his very essence.

I swallowed as if it was his very life I consumed.

And in a way, it was.

Because a sin like this couldn’t go unforgiven.

Need or no need.

Desire or no desire.

I was done being nice to this heathen.

Swooping to my feet, I clutched my pasta and swept past him.

With each step, the chain clinked behind me, making my blood boil with fury.

But he didn’t stop me.

He didn’t chase.

He merely let me go, knowing we were tethered forever.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

WE SLEPT IN DIFFERENT rooms.

Well, she slept (at least, I assumed she slept). I didn’t.

Now that my brain wasn’t as fractured with a concussion, I found it impossible to sleep anywhere but the dormitory. I was done being unconscious in the library—bed of blankets or not. I craved the ability to close and lock a door. I grew more and more frustrated as midnight ticked over to three a.m. and dawn slowly brought light back into the world.

I didn’t know where she’d gone after leaving me in the kitchen. I hadn’t tried to find her. Partly because my head still hurt like a motherfucker, and mostly because I had a feeling if I pressed her tonight, she’d end up fulfilling the key task for her freedom.

She’d slaughter me with her pasta bowl or murder me with her fork.

I winced all over again at the stark coldness in her eyes. The anger burning in her every extremity. The absolute betrayal and hatred on her beautiful face.

Fuck, it’d hurt.

I hadn’t expected that to affect me. I hadn’t thought I was capable of actually being concerned about the welfare of others. Not now. Not since I’d used up every drop of compassion inside me.

But seeing her loathing me? Feeling her pull away? Watching the door into her heart being slammed firmly in my face had fucking butchered me. I hadn’t realized until that moment just how much I’d grown accustomed to her kindness. How she’d given me something of herself even while I’d been a bastard to her. Even when I’d trapped her, smashed her possessions, and made her get on her knees, there’d always been a piece of her that welcomed me.

A piece she wasn’t even aware of possessing. A piece that was so goddamn strong, it withstood my violence, my cruelness, my every twisted desire all because she could see past the mask I’d worn so long. A mask I didn’t even know how to remove anymore. A mask that had turned me into one of them.

A self-fulfilling prophecy of the tormented becoming the tormentor. I felt within my right. Fully vindicated to do whatever I damn well pleased because I’d earned it.

I know I have.

I’d sacrificed everything, for Christ’s sake.

So why the hell did I churn with sickening guilt?

Because, unlike you, she hasn’t switched off her empathy.

She’d given me understanding even while granting me forced pleasure. She’d bestowed absolution even as I commanded her against her will.

She’d run from me.

She’d cared for me.

She’d turned me inside out and upside fucking down, and I didn’t know how to cope in this new world I’d woken in.

I can’t do this. Any of it.

I couldn’t let her go. I couldn’t stomach the thought of the empty rooms above me whispering with black history and horror. I couldn’t sleep in a valley where there was no one to talk to. No one there to make me feel. Make me human.

But I also couldn’t control the contradicting emotions drowning me. A part of me wanted her to hate me. It’d lusted for that moment since I’d strangled her the first time. I wanted to be feared and detested. If she looked at me like the scum I was, then I had an excuse to be exactly what she thought of me. I could be explicit and sadistic. I could happily embrace depravity and vengeance because, maybe, hopefully, if I took out my revenge on her, maybe it would help me heal. Maybe her screams could replace mine. Perhaps her pain could erase every agony I’d endured.