Marked

Chapter Nineteen

The minutes ticked on as she stared at Hector's closed cabin door.

What if he was asleep?

What if he didn't want to see her?

She dried her sweaty palms against her legs and raised a fist up to knock on the door but it was as if she was suddenly frozen still.

Her hand remained suspended, unable to knock.

She shut her eyes and replayed her mother's words in her mind over and over again.

Was she willing to let someone as good as Hector slip out of her hands because she was afraid of what? Letting him know she'd killed someone? Everyone she knew had been forced to kill someone at one point. So why couldn't she bring herself to talk about it?

Because talking about it makes it real, she thought. And you tried to pretend for so long that it wasn't.

Finally, she rapped on the door, loud and with purpose, so there was no way of mistaking the sound. She didn't know if she'd ever have the guts to do this again, so it was now or never.

After a moment, the door creaked open just a bit and Hector peeked his head out, his hair disheveled, eyes groggy.

"Rachel? What are you--"

"I'm not playing games," she blurted as she stepped past him into his cabin. A quick sweep told her it was sparsely decorated with only a desk, a lamp for light, and several children's toys in one corner.

"Rachel—"

"No, hear me out. Just," She gestured with her hands for him to sit. "It took a lot for me to come here tonight so please, just sit down and listen."

He contemplated her for a few moments, and she tried not to be distracted by the fact that he was shirtless. He rubbed his eyes, closed the door, pulled out the chair from beneath his desk, and sat down, facing her.

"I'm not playing games with your heart." She repeated. She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "But I killed someone, Hector, and it messed up my entire world. I killed someone and now I don't know who I am anymore."

He looked around the room—at his unmade bed, at the loose sheets of paper and crayons lying on the table, and anywhere but at her. "I'm sorry you're going through this, and I wish you'd let me help," he ran a hand over his face. "But you changed long before Gabe, Rachel."

She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm not talking about Gabe."

His eyebrows drew together in confusion, and he finally looked at her.

She clenched and unclenched her fists, trying to build up the courage to tell him about the dead poacher. She remembered the way he'd sucked in a gasp when she'd admitted to Copenhagen that she'd killed Gabe. All this time she had been afraid he would see her differently, that he would think she was a terrible person.

But was that worse than losing him altogether?

"I killed a poacher back in the capital and it destroyed me." She sank down onto his bed, letting the words hang between them like a tangible thing. The weight of her confession smothered her, but she had to keep going. "That's why I pushed you away. Not because I didn't care about you but because I was a mess and--and felt like I didn't deserve any happiness after that. How could I be happy, when I--"

"Oh, Rachel," He breathed. He watched her but she couldn't look at him, too afraid of what she'd find there.

Slowly, as if he knew that if he went any faster, she might flee this room, this truth, he took a few steps until he was right in front of her. He sank down onto one knee and took her hand into his.