Maëlys managed to break free from Eliott, though the effort left her trembling and gasping for air. His possessive declaration, his refusal to let her go, had solidified her resolve. She couldn't allow herself to be consumed by this dark, terrifying force, no matter how desperately a part of her yearned for the answers he held. She slammed her front door shut, locking it with shaking hands, effectively erecting an invisible wall between them.
She spent the next few days in self-imposed exile, the house her fortress against the storm that was Eliott. She ignored his calls, silenced her phone, and kept her curtains drawn. She knew he was out there. She felt his presence in the town, a subtle hum in the atmosphere. Sometimes, she'd see his truck drive slowly past her house. Once, she found a single, perfect white rose left on her doorstep, a poignant, chilling reminder of his unwavering presence.
Her mind was a battlefield, replaying every fragment of memory, every word Eliott had spoken. Léonie's face, clear now in her mind's eye, beautiful and tragic. Liam, a blur of reckless anger. And Eliott, always Eliott, the dark thread woven through every painful memory, every agonizing flashback. She tried to piece it together, to understand the intricacies of their "dangerous" past, but the fragments were too raw, too incomplete, twisting into a narrative that seemed impossible to grasp.
Despite her fury, a part of her ached for understanding. She found herself scrolling through old local news sites again, searching for more about Liam Thorne, about the crash. She discovered old photos of him, a younger, more carefree version of Eliott, though still with that same intense gaze. And in some, blurred in the background, she thought she could make out glimpses of herself, of Léonie. Evidence of a life she couldn't remember, a life intertwined with these brothers.
Then, the letters started. Not texts, but handwritten notes, slipped under her door. Eliott's rough, masculine script filled the pages, raw and desperate. He poured out his soul, recounting fragmented memories of their past, not just the tragedy, but moments of fierce passion, of tender vulnerability. He spoke of the impossible choices he'd faced, the constant guilt, the agonizing decision to let her forget. He confessed his own love for her, a love so consuming it had driven him to desperate measures. Each letter was a confession, a plea, a mirror reflecting a shared history she was only just beginning to grasp.
"I watched you laugh, Maëlys. A real laugh, free from the shadows. And I knew I couldn't burden you with the monster I was, the monster we created. It was an act of love, I swear. A brutal, agonizing act."
"Do you remember the cliffs? Our place? The way the wind ripped through your hair, and you just smiled, fearless? I miss that. I miss you. All of you."
Maëlys read them all, her heart tearing with each word. They didn't soothe her anger, but they complicated it. She saw his pain, his torment, his own scars, etched not on his skin, but in his desperate words. The invisible wall she had built around herself began to crack, weakened not by his force, but by the raw, poetic pain he poured onto the pages, dragging her deeper into the consuming narrative of their shared past. She hated him for what he'd done, but she couldn't deny the terrifying, addictive pull of his tormented soul.