Page 64 of Wicked Vile King
"Why'd you try to kill yourself?" Both of his hands roll up my sleeves this time, and he traces the scars on my wrists.
"I was sad."
"Being sad doesn't make a person do that."
His thumb rubs harder, up and down the gnarled flesh. It hurts.
"Say it," he demands. "Admit it."
"Admit what?"
"Admit that you wanted to die, pet."
I shake my head as he continues to rub, harder this time. "I didn't want to kill myself, Saint. It was a . . . a fucked-up cry for attention, that's all."
His thumbs bite into the scars on my wrists, and I grit my teeth to stifle my yelp.
"Your scars tell a different story. You cut deep, pretty girl."
"I made a mistake," I say with a swallow.
"No." The word tickles my nose as he leans in, his hands stilling on my forearms. "You lost three pints of blood, pet. You coded twice on the way to the hospital. You don't do that kind of damage if you didn't want to die."
Everything in me freezes solid all at once, and I ask the question that screams at me from the back of my brain. "How do you know that?"
"I know everything about you, pet," he tells me, like it's normal, like I shouldn't be concerned. "Everything your file could tell me at least."
I try to jerk away. "Screw you, Saint. That's personal."
"Just admit it," he snarls, a hand leaving my forearm and going around my throat, catching me.
"What's it matter to you?"
"It matters because I don't want that mask you wear for the rest of the world. I want you, Willow, all of you, no lies, no hidden truths. I want every ugly part. My ego won't allow me to accept anything less."
"This is me."
"No, it's not," he snaps. "Admit it."
He squeezes tighter, but I don't answer.
"Admit it," he growls.
Still, I don't reply.
"Chest compressions at a rate of 120 pushes per minute," he hisses. "An automated external defibrillator. Adrenaline administered via a central line. Calcium chloride when that fucking failed. They worked on you forseventyminutes, pretty girl. Admit. It."
"No." I shake my head, and I can't help it. I start to cry.
"Say it, and I'll stop," he offers.
Tears run in tiny rivulets down my cheeks.
"Say it!"
I hiccup with a sob.
"Just say it," he purrs, the words a whisper this time. "Admit. It."
