"Meet Diablo," Dante told me.

My hands covered my mouth in that, 'omg I'm a girl and I am having an emotional overload moment' pose." 

But I couldn't seem to help it.  He'd gotten me a kitten.  It was so perfect, and thoughtful, and reminiscent of old times that my eyes teared up as I scooped the little treasure out of his hand, cradling it to my chest. 

Beautiful blue eyes blinked up at me.  I'd thought the kitten was white, but it was really a sandy color, with gray on its nose, ears, and paws.

I sat abruptly on the floor, crossing my legs, holding the cat with one hand so I could stroke it with the other. 

When I had it purring, I beamed up at Dante.  "How did you know?" 

His eyes were soft enough to melt me.  "That you love cats?  You always did.  And all of the cat T-shirts gave me the idea."

"Is it a boy or a girl?" I asked him.  I was lying on the ground now, playing with its paws. 

"Girl." 

"A girl named Diablo?"

"You're questioning that a girl could be the devil?  That is rich." 

I hid my smile in Diablo's fluff.  The man had a point.

I had a three-day break from shooting the film.  I brought Amos over, and we played house with childish abandon, doting on our new kitten like she was our child.

We were at a dangerous place then, he and I, where though I'd forgotten nothing—not a one of his sins and certainly not one of mine—they weren't crushing my mood into blackness as they usually did, as it was their job to do when he was this deep into my head.

"We're becoming one of those couples that we would make fun of," I told him the second day.  We were in the backyard, making pet videos of all of the adorable interactions between Amos and Diablo. 

"Joke's on you," Dante said with a soft smile.  "We always were." 

The time with Dante was good for me in a lot of fundamental ways.  That was a fact.  But always, running under our time together, over it, through it, was a bittersweet current of fear.  This was not permanent.  This was stolen time.

I'd steal it again, take and take, everything I could, because it was right.  We were right together.  He'd said it best—apart we were not ourselves.  We only ever made sense together.   

But no length of stolen time, no amount of righteousness, could change the past or the future.  

"What's the plan here?" I asked him on the third day.  It had started as a small weight, but as these things went, it became bigger the longer I didn't address it.  "Are we just going to hide from Adelaide forever?"

We were in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner.  He turned to look at me head on as he replied, "For now, yes.  For however long is necessary.  I'm working with Bastian on trying to get some dirt on her, some leverage for counter-blackmail—"

I smirked at the counter-blackmail.  It was so Durant it hurt, the manipulative bastards. 

"But until we have something that will ruin her beyond a shadow of a doubt, she's always going to have the upper hand.  That is a fact."  

It all felt so hopeless all of a sudden that I couldn't keep it in.  "You know we're being foolish.  Nothing has changed, not really.  You and I are still hopeless.  I should just stay away from you.  If I were smart, I would."

That set him off, nostrils flaring, eyes flashing.  He stepped right into my personal space, so I had to look up to meet his eyes. I'd done it now.  "Oh yes.  Your incredible restraint.  Don't remind me.  You think I need to be reminded?  That restraint breathes down my neck every minute of every day.  You could stay the hell away from me indefinitely; I'm well aware.  But what if I can't let you?  What if I'm sick to death of trying?" 

My heart was pounding, eyes devouring his passionate expression.  Sometimes I felt I could feed on his rage alone.  It was sick and twisted and irresistible.  "Sooner or later, we all have to pay for our sins," I said softly. 

He shook his head, "No.  That's not where this is heading.  No.  I won't allow it."    

He said it like he meant it, with absolute inflexibility.  I tried to find comfort in that. 

CHAPTER

TWENTY-SIX

"What matters most is how well you walk through the fire."

~Charles Bukowski

PAST

SCARLETT

Harris didn't take me to the station. 

He took me back to my grandma's trailer, which he knew would be vacant. 

He dragged me kicking and screaming inside. 

It was like a switch in my brain that I couldn't turn off.  I'd fight him until he decided I was more trouble than I was worth. 

I'd fight him until he killed me. 

I scratched him until he bled.  On the arms, on his face.  I went for his eyes and almost got one. 

I bit him on the neck and wouldn't let go.  I tasted blood and wondered if I was close to his jugular.  I ripped chunks of his flesh out with my teeth, but it still didn't slow him.   

Finally he clocked me on the back of the head, and the world went black. 

I came to tied spread eagle on my bed.  I was naked.

The first thing I saw was my bedside clock. 

11:23. 

It's only 11:23, I thought.  Not even an entire period has passed since he took me from school.  It seemed impossible that it was still so early. 

I kept my eyes glued to that clock for four solid hours.  The ropes were so tight that I couldn't shift even an inch to fight him.