Chapter 133: 33| Breathless-2

"Please!" I yelled, watching in horror as he grabbed her by the hair, making her scream out in agony and sob. Francesca's screams and shouts bled into mine as he brought out a pocket knife and snapped the blade open, cutting her sharply across the arm. I was terrified, and I felt the tremble down to my bones as I feared for Francesca's life and my own. With her blood dripping off his fingers, he turned around and said to me, "Not you, Little Dove. I'd never hurt you this way." He moved to leave another slash on Francesca's arm despite both of our screams in terror when, all of a sudden, a loud crash came from the small wooden door located a few feet beside my bed. I gasped and held my breath altogether, watching the man as he cursed loudly, tightening his grip on the knife. "I'll fucking kill that boy!" he shouted in rage before crossing the room in quick, wide strides. Only seconds before he reached it, I saw the door was left ajar barely an inch, and inside, I saw a boy. Dark hair, hollowed-out gray eyes, and bruises and blood all over his bare upper half. The door slammed shut behind him, and seconds later, the deafening screams of that boy were all we could hear. When he walked back out almost an hour later, he didn't touch Francesca or me. His rage had simmered. Briefly, he stopped to look at me. "I'm sure you have questions, but my answers are those you're too young to understand, Anastasia." Ignoring Francesca's warning, as she shook her head, I said, "You know my name." And the man smiled, "Of course I do." "I don't know yours," I whispered shakily, "what do I call you?" With blood still tainting his hands, he touched my cheek. "You can call me Isaiah." After walking out of the room that night, he didn't return for what felt like several hours, perhaps, it was the next day when he finally did with three plates full of breakfast. From that day on, we saw him only twice a day, once every morning and once every night. Every morning, he'd come to me with a smile, brush my hair, and dress me in new dresses for each day. But every night, he'd come to paint with a set of knives waiting to be used on us, sitting beside his paintbrushes. A blade never once touched me, it was always Francesca. Days passed, they must have turned into weeks, and with each day, there was another scar, another wound on Francesca's body. I never heard a sound from that door beside me in the daytime either, only at night. Whenever Francesca and I screamed in pain or fear, a loud crash would echo from that room, and Isaiah's rage and attention would shift to whoever was behind that door. On most nights, that took the attention off of us. On some nights, he focused only on Francesca and me. And then one morning, I'd woken up… but Francesca hadn't. The blood pooling around her body grew more visible with the hours, and it wasn't until I'd seen the knives impaling her chest and abdomen that I'd completely lost it and broken down. "I never thought I would make it out of there," I whispered, taking a deep breath as I turned to face Dante, looking away from the city's nighttime skyline. The day had bled into the night, but we hadn't gone anywhere. We still stood on the rooftop. When Dante said those words earlier in the day, my entire world had stopped. I was there. I wanted to know it all, every single thing. How could I have missed this? After all this time, I knew him enough to know he must have had his reasons. So many questions were tearing me up, and it felt like we were running out of time. I'd asked him for the truth, and I could see that he was trying to give it to me, but within seconds of starting the conversation, Dante grew breathless. I recognized the same panic in his eyes when he spoke of his past, and I knew that in his mind, he had fallen back into the depths of darkness I'd been drowning in for years. I wanted to hear his story, and he wanted to tell me, but he couldn't do it. He needed a little nudge, support, and a hand to hold. So I told him my story first. Reliving my past as I explained everything to him wasn't easy. It made me feel vulnerable, it made me feel weak. Knowing that the demons from my past still haunted me made me feel pathetic. But I would tolerate that if it meant truly getting to know Dante. With his elbows resting on the railing, he sighed deeply and let his head fall forward. "Fuck, Anastasia," he breathed out, turning to me. I inclined my body to face his. "Talk to me, Dante," I pleaded. "I've poured my entire life out to you. You already knew pieces of me I never gave you, but I still have nothing from you. I wish I could give you the time you need, but we don't have time to spare. "If we're going to figure this out, you need to tell me what happened. From the beginning to the end. Was it you? The boy he kept… Were you the one locked in that closet?" He didn't have to say it, I knew the answer when I looked at him and my heart completely shattered for him. "Anastasia-" "The scars," I breathed out, "did he do that to you? Like he would to Francesca?" He couldn't meet my eyes. "God," I sighed, throwing my head back. Why them? Why hurt them and not me? "Anastasia, please let me take you home," Dante said. "But I-" "I promised you honesty, and I am a man of my word. Let's go home first, please." I knew how difficult it must have been for him. Maybe he wasn't urging me for my sake, maybe he just wanted to go home. Somewhere he felt safe, someplace he trusted. "Let's go home," I agreed, taking his hand in mine. "Fuck," his chest caved with relief as he pulled me into him, wrapping his arms around me tightly. My hands settled on his back as I rubbed up and down slowly, hoping to soothe him. "Let's go home," I repeated softly. . . . . . Chapter 33 😭😭 👀