God of War: An Enemies to Lovers Marriage Romance (Legacy of Gods Book 6)
God of War: Chapter 38

PRESENT

Lack of sleep is beginning to affect my productivity and, worse, my vigilance.

It’s no longer a rare occurrence or a fleeting occasion. I’m unable to sleep lately, whether by choice or design, and it’s all due to the very rational fear that Ava could sleepwalk into her fucking death.

It wouldn’t be the first time. I caught her standing at the edge of the balcony on Gran’s island, arms wide open as she smiled at the ground.

That smile still haunts me. Sadness and crushing relief brightened her dead blue eyes like a shooting star on a moonless night. That fleeting moment had the largest impact on me as she stood there in the night breeze, her nightgown flying with the wind, and I knew, I just knew that if I didn’t pull her back, she’d fall to her death.

She’d escape me forever.

As the car comes to a slow stop in front of the house, I pinch the bridge of my nose and mentally prepare myself for another sleepless, torturously paranoid night.

I down my fifth coffee for the day and get out.

Henderson follows me to the entrance, and instead of opening the door, he steps in front of it.

I raise a brow.

His deep-brown eyes appear black under the dim light as he throws tentative glances to either side of him.

“Spare me the suspense.” My voice sounds tired to my own ears. “If there’s anything you wish to say, say it or move out of the way.”

“This is not sustainable, sir.”

“And neither is keeping you in service when you don’t have your priorities straight, but here we are.”

“You know full well that you can’t survive on continuous lack of sleep. Your body will eventually shut down and the consequences will be unsalvageable.”

“I’m sure you and Sam will manage the estate’s affairs until I’m back on my feet again.”

“Just so you can shove yourself into this state again?”

“If need be. I have to be hands-on the entire time.”

“Then why don’t you quit your job and dedicate yourself to being her full-time carer?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Sir!” Henderson grits his teeth, visibly vying for the patience he usually has in abundance. “If you give up everything for her, you’ll eventually despise her for forcing you down this path.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I’d never despise her.”

“Even if she’s the reason you ruin the ambition you’ve harbored your entire life?”

“Even then.”

“You’ll be destructive without a purpose.”

“I have a purpose. It’s her.”

He releases a long sigh that borders on both frustration and defeat. “I’ve known you since you were a child, and there has never been a time where I thought you to be impulsively irrational like you are right now. If you believe keeping her from getting proper help in a specialized institution is considered a form of protection, then you’re sorely mistaken. You’re merely delaying the inevitable, and not for the best. This will have a worse impact on her than the previous time and it’ll only end in disaster.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” I snap. “Because I do. I’ve studied all of the possible outcomes and I’m well aware of the consequences.”

“You simply don’t care?”

“I simply do not want her locked up in an institution she loathes and distrusts. The last time we did that, she nearly took her own life.”

“She’s prone to attempting suicide even without the locking-up part.”

My jaw clenches and I have this urge to punch Henderson’s face and shut him up for eternity. But that would make my wife sad, considering the infuriating bond she’s formed with the man.

She’s often Leo this and Leo that, perfectly channeling the energy of an extrovert who’s adopted a clueless introvert.

So I shove him out of the way without inflicting bodily harm—for now. I swear to fuck, if he keeps spouting nonsense, I’ll expel him to the moon.

My steps are slow and I sway and then grab onto the wall for balance. Apparently, I need more caffeine.

Sam and Henderson would say I need rest.

My ears prickle at the faint sound of the cello coming from the media room where Ava usually practices. It’s high-pitched and lacks the usual elegance my wife is known for in the music scene.

If anything, it’s intense and jolting, filling the space with a cloak of danger and urgency.

My muscles tighten as I hurry in that direction. While I don’t get alarmed at the melodies of the cello lately, this sound is a horrifying reminder of a not-so-distant version of my wife.

I grab the knob and turn, holding out hope that I’m overthinking.

The door creaks open, the noise clashing with the desperate notes of music.

My wife is perched on a chair, surrounded by a dangerous sea of shattered remnants of the glass coffee table. Crimson trails slice across her bare feet and the fronts of her legs, as though she crawled through the shards before standing on them. She continues to play her symphony of death with bleeding fingers, the bow and strings serving as instruments for her psychosis.

Each drop of blood stains the once-pristine rug and leaves deep-red splatters on the broken screen of her phone and her light-pink dress. Even her tousled hair is marred by streaks of crimson.

Blood surrounds us, a vivid and jarring reminder of the chaos I selfishly thrust us into.

I walk toward her slowly in an attempt to keep from startling her while suppressing my need to jog, to run, to remove her from the hazardous situation.

The glass crunches beneath my shoes until I stop in front of her and call in a firm voice over the music, “Ava?”

Her bow comes to an abrupt halt and her fingers freeze on the tuning pegs. Slowly, she lifts her head and stares up at me with eyes both vacant and enraged. They look lost, but they also brim with a hot red edge.

Tension crackles and blisters in the air as we maintain eye contact. Me, because I’m trying to identify if she’s coming off one of her episodes.

Her…I have no clue. She looks at me with a depressing fear I never thought I’d see on her face again.

“Is everything all right?” I step forward and lift a hand to touch her, check her pulse, and make sure it’s beating normally.

Ava jerks back, and the cello falls from her hand and crashes against the shattered glass. Her chair scrapes the pieces and tilts under her weight but she doesn’t fall.

“Don’t touch me,” she says with enough bitterness to send my hackles up.

To avoid alarming her, I remain in place and shove a hand in my pocket, summoning my most gentle tone. “What’s the issue?”

“You lied to me. All this time, you’ve been lying to me.” Moisture clings to her lids as red covers her cheek.

“Concerning what?” I say calmly.

“Everything!” she yells, her voice cracking. “You lied about our marriage of convenience. The reason behind it wasn’t so we’d benefit each other. You forced me to tie the knot so you could make sure I kept your murder a secret. You threatened to take me down with you as an accomplice if I didn’t comply with your proposal.”

Fuck.

Fucking hell.

A muscle tightens in my jaw as the wall I carefully built around my wife crumbles to the ground in one blistering go.

“What else do you remember?” I ask with a tight voice.

It’s pointless to try to make her believe none of that happened or that it’s a play of her imagination. I never felt comfortable exploiting her mental state in that manner anyway, not even if it was for her sake.

“I remember everything. The way you made me marry you. How, when I was at the altar and contemplated running away, you reminded me that you killed someone for me and would snap my neck if I posed as any form of a problem for you.” She sniffles, a tear falling down her cheek. “You threatened me with murder on my wedding day! How could you do that to me?”

“Because I couldn’t afford to let you run away.”

“Afraid of people gossiping if I left you stranded at the altar?”

“Afraid that was my last chance to have you.”

“You mean possess me? Own me?”

It might have started that way, yes, but it’s evolved since then, especially after she lost her memory. Ava has become an integral part of my life I cannot survive without and that makes her a weakness, a liability, a loose thread anyone could exploit and use against me.

All this time, I’ve been battling with the notion of cutting that thread and ridding myself of the hazard she poses, but every time, I come to the conclusion that I refuse to imagine my life without her sunshine, pink-themed existence in it.

So I doubled down on my efforts. Attempted to erase the past, her illness, and everything that could turn her situation murkier.

“I’m not a thing you play with, then toss away once you’re bored, Eli.” Tears stream down her cheeks as she taps her chest with bloody fingers. “I feel. I have emotions and a heart that’s been broken far too many times but refuses to die already. I’m done giving you liberty of it. Done dancing to your tune, demands, and controlling behavior.”

“Is that all you remember? Demands and controlling behavior?”

“I remember you made me listen to a conversation between my parents where they were discussing my deteriorating state. Mama wanted to have me admitted to the institute, but Papa disagreed and wanted to change my therapist. You did that on purpose so I’d feel guilty about being the reason for their quarrel and pose no objection to the guardianship transfer to you. You demanded I stop drinking, and when I didn’t comply, you tied me up and forced me to get sober. I remember you ordering me to take my meds regularly, and when I refused, you locked me up in the psyche ward for months until I was begging you to take me out. You changed my therapist, separated me from the friends I partied with, and blacklisted me from all the clubs in the UK. You put a tracker on my phone and forbid me from driving again. You had people following me everywhere. I wasn’t allowed to drink, party, or even go out alone, and my only companions were your people, my parents, your parents, Ari and Cecy. You transformed my world into a gilded cage, so yes, all I remember is demands and controlling behavior.”

She’s crying now. The longer she spoke, the more broken her voice turned, until she could barely talk at the end.

Everything she remembers happened way before her latest episode that ended in amnesia. Does that mean she doesn’t recall the trigger?

Is she blocking that out on purpose?

Dr. Blaine said that Ava, like any neurodivergent person who’s prone to trauma, strongly emphasizes the negative over the positive, and in some instances might choose to completely erase any good moments in favor of fitting reality into her perceived narrative.

If my wife thinks I’m the big bad wolf who ruined her life and built her a pretty gilded cage, there’s no way for me to change that perception with words. The more I insist on altering her version, the more paranoid she’ll turn, and her brain might shut down as a consequence.

I made that mistake before she fell down the stairs and lost her memory. I tried explaining that, yes, I forced her to marry me, but everything else happened for a different reason than what she believed.

My wife couldn’t handle the truth, and the whole debacle ended in tragedy. So I will not, under any circumstances, attempt that route again.

“You’re not going to say anything?” Her pained voice and tear-streaked face are no different than a shard of glass being stabbed into my chest.

“What do you want me to say?” I ask with feigned nonchalance.

“An excuse? An explanation? An attempt to make me believe I imagined things wrong and that I’m more mentally unstable than I thought. Won’t you make me question myself as usual? Aren’t you an expert in manipulation and gaslighting?”

“I don’t see the point.” I step forward. “Let me clean your wounds.”

“Step away from me!” She lunges up, and the chair knocks backward as she steps on a shard of glass.

I freeze when I see it lodging itself deep in her foot, then fall two steps back. “I’m away. Just stop moving. I’ll leave and call Sam to help you, all right?”

“Don’t you dare walk away when I’m talking to you!”

My feet come to a stop again as I face her. “I’m all ears.”

She sniffles, pain turning her breathing shallow and her body shaking uncontrollably. “Did you have fun stringing me along all these months and making me believe I could be normal? Did you find pleasure in giving me hope, mending the cracks in my heart while knowing full well you’d shatter it to pieces again?”

“I find no pleasure in your pain, Ava.”

“Liar!” she screams. “Stop lying to me! Stop tormenting me! Just stop!”

She’s walking back and forth on the glass now, and I swear to fuck, I feel every shard wedging its way into my chest.

“Okay, okay…” I put both hands up in a show of surrender. “I’ll say whatever you want. Just stop hurting yourself. Please.”

It takes everything in me not to sweep her up in my arms and remove the glass from her skin. But I know if I do that, she’ll escalate. Like an unpredictable hurricane.

My gaze flits to the cabinet where I have her emergency tranquilizer shot. We planted them in every room in the house and all the cars we use.

After that time she fell down the stairs, I promised to never let it escalate that far again. All I have to do is give her the shot and everything will be okay for a while.

Until I have to make some hard decisions. Again.

Ava stops and tilts her head. “You pity me, don’t you? You feel like I’m a poor girl with a lot of issues, so you married me to feel good about yourself, didn’t you? Everything was a lie. Your words, your actions, your promises. Oh my God.”

“It’s not like that.” I take one step forward, two…

On the third, she bends over and snatches a large shard of glass in her bloodied hand, and points it at me “Stay away!”

Fuck, fuck, fuck…

I often read history books about ways the past repeats itself, oftentimes in an endless loop, but I never thought that could be literal.

And real.

Last time, my wife held a knife. This time, it’s a sharp and fucking deadly shard of glass that’s currently digging into her skin.

Blood streams over her palms and wrists then drips on the wooden floor in a sickening rhythm as she trembles, sniffles, and releases small moans of pain.

She’s an absolute mess of epic proportions, and I can’t push away the idea that I caused this by not offering her the help I can’t provide.

The help being admitting her to an institution the moment she woke up in the hospital. It didn’t matter that she had amnesia or that she looked normal. Dr. Blaine said it was merely a phase in her cycle, and her cycle is unpredictable. She poses a danger to herself and those around her.

She’s a liability.

A mentally insane person who needs proper care.

Even her parents agreed with the doctor. Ariella and Cecily, too. Hell, my own mother has been constantly begging me to change my mind. Not to mention Henderson and Sam.

Did I listen?

No.

I saw the girl who looked at me with heart eyes and pent-up emotions and decided to take a different approach this time.

Allow her to live normally. To spread her wings and feel like ordinary people do.

And I thought things were going well. She came out of her shell, she liked me again, and she looked at me as if I was the only one she needed. Due to her memory loss, she wasn’t as paranoid or scared of me because of the murder. She forgot I’d coerced her into marriage, rehab, and quitting her bad habits.

She came back into my orbit like she was always meant to.

It wasn’t until now that I realized I could have possibly, probably made a massive mistake.

I remain silent and so still, I stop breathing for a while so as not to alarm her.

Ava’s inhales and exhales deepen like an injured animal before her eyes widen. “Oh my God…no…no…no…”

“What’s wrong?”

“No…oh God…” She bends over, hugging her stomach as if she’s been shot there.

“Does it hurt? What is it, Ava?”

She straightens with stiff movements and stares at my chest with wide eyes, fresh tears streaming down her face. “I…I asked you to let me go and you…you said no and I…I…I stabbed you! The scar in your abdomen is because of me.”

“You didn’t mean to. I tried to disarm you.” I speak so carefully, my voice is barely audible.

“B-but I hurt you…I…” The hand grasping the shard of glass trembles as she drops it to her side. “I stabbed you and…and…the knife fell and I stepped backward and fell down the stairs. I hurt you…you were bleeding so much.”

“I’m fine.” I tug my shirt out of my trousers and show her the healed wound. “See? I’m not in pain anymore.”

Her watery gaze falls to my skin and a fresh wave of tears cascade down her cheeks. “But I am in pain. Right here.” She hits her chest. “But especially here.” She bangs on her head with a fist. “I’m in so much pain. I can’t take it anymore.”

“Everything’s going to be all right.”

“No, it won’t. I think it’s time I accept that.” She pushes the shard of glass against her neck.

“Ava, no!”

“Divorce me or I will kill myself.” She tilts her head back and holds the glass so close to the pulse point I’ve been obsessing over for months. A droplet of blood cascades down her porcelain skin and soaks the collar of her dress.

“You got it. I’ll divorce you. Now, let go.” I approach her slowly, my muscles tightening and my heart hammering.

“And you’ll transfer the guardianship to Papa?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll let me go? For good?”

“Yes—” Once I’m within reach, I snatch the piece of glass and throw it against the opposite wall and then wrap my arms around her from behind, restraining both her hands in front of her.

I’m panting, my breaths strained as if I’ve run a marathon. My wife struggles and kicks and releases animalistic sounds.

“If you don’t do as promised, I’ll find a way to commit suicide. Whether by throwing myself off a bridge, a building, or in front of a train. I will swallow a bottle of pills or slice my wrists or even hang myself. I will do everything to take myself from your vicinity if you don’t give me back my freedom. I promise I will! I promise I will!”

Her words have no different effect than if she’d stabbed me again.

No.

They’re much worse.

A few months ago, she wanted to kill me to leave me. Now, she’s willing to kill herself just to escape me.

Fucking hell.

Keeping her restrained with one hand, I reach to the drawer behind me and retrieve the first aid kit, fumble around until I find the syringe with the tranquilizer, then gently inject it in her arm.

Ava’s movements slow down and her eyes droop. As she goes heavy in my arms, a final tear leaves her eye as she stares at me. “I’d rather die than stay married to you.”

And then she goes still.

I drop my forehead to hers and allow myself to mourn my wife one final time.

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