InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Metempsychosis ❯ Mistaken ( Chapter 61 )

Myrna raised her fist, pounded on the thick steel door—pounded hard, pounded loud—and didn't stop pounding against the surface, even when the side of her fist started to throb.  "Ashur, goddamn it!  Open the door!" she hollered, leaning to the side just far enough to bellow at the tiny security camera, beating on the door with one hand, smashing her index finger into the doorbell button over and over again with her other hand.  "Open up now!"

Uttering a frustrated growl, Myrna gnashed her teeth, lips curling back in a grimace.  "If you don't open this damn door, I swear to God, I'll—"

"You'll what?  What the hell are you doing?" Ashur demanded, striding up the sidewalk behind her, glowering at her extreme abuse of his front door.  In his hand was a bouquet of roses—roses such a rich, dark red that they almost matched the color of Jessa's eyes . . .

"Give me one good reason that I shouldn't rip that pretty face of yours to shreds, Ashur Philips—or should I call you Kyouhei Muira?  Because right now, I don't give a great goddamn which one you are.  I want to kill you—kill you—but I can't, so . . ." Drawing a deep breath that did nothing at all to calm her rioting nerves, Myrna glowered at him as he touched the Identilock to release the door and stepped inside, leaving the door standing ajar to allow her to follow him.

She did, dropping her carry-on bag onto the floor.  "Are those for Jessa?"

He heaved a sigh, set the flowers aside as he stalked past her and into the living room, heading straight for the wetbar to pour himself a rather obscenely full glass of cognac.  Only after he'd slammed that back did he bother to turn to face Myrna, gaze flashing with indignant fire that only served to send Myrna's already skyrocketing temper, spiraling higher.  "Of course, they're for her," he growled.  "Who else would I buy them for, anyway?"

Myrna nodded, turning on her heel, snatching up the flowers that she proceeded to club against the wall as hard as she could.  Petals flew off, stems snapped and broke.  "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded, his footsteps falling heavily as he hurried to intercept her.

It was too late, of course, satisfied with the mangled pieces still left in her hand, she dropped them carelessly on the petal-littered floor and glowered up at Ashur.  "Stop giving her shit she doesn't want and didn't ask for—stop giving her your so-called gifts after you fuck her—after you use her—after you humiliate her!" she bellowed.

He drew back, his face registering his shock, his confusion, at her accusation.  Seconds later, anger ignited, nudged those other, weaker emotions aside.  "I didn't use her, and I most certainly never humiliated her!  I—"

"And what the hell do you call last night?  You drag her off into one of those rooms—rooms that aren't soundproofed, you realize—in a gathering of way too many youkai!  They called her a whore, Ashur—your whore!  Your tramp, your cheap little fling!  And then you step out there, you step onto that auction block, and you—you didn't see her face, did you?  Of course, you didn't!  Why the hell would you do that?  Why?"

As much as she wished it were otherwise, the stricken look in his face—the one that he tried to hide from her—spoke volumes.  He looked about the same as Jessa had last night—so lost, so bewildered—like he didn't understand it all, any better than she did.  It was that, alone, that quelled at least a portion of Myrna’s anger, of her antipathy—not entirely, but she sighed.  "Do you have any idea?  Do you?  The way she watched you all night, and then, when you danced with her?  She tried to hide it, but she can't.  Maybe she never learned how—I don't know.  I don't care.  All I know is that when she danced with you, everyone saw it: everyone that looked at her knew it.  That girl . . . She . . ."  Trailing off, waving her hand dismissively, Myrna shook her head.  "You destroyed her Ashur—utterly, completely, unapologetically.  You bulldozed her, and you . . . you really don't understand, do you?"

He heaved a sigh, glowered at the wall, at the floor—everywhere but at Myrna.  "Understand what?" he countered.

And yet, as belligerent as his words were, his tone was leveled by a sad sense of confusion, of . . . of pain . . . He really, he honestly . . . Myrna stifled a growl, dragged a hand over her forehead in an entirely exasperated kind of way, but it was that confusion, that pain, that forced her to swallow her anger, her impatience, as she slowly shook her head.  "Jessa told me everything last night," she said.  "Told me how things started between the two of you . . . Told me where it went . . . She doesn't understand it any better than you do, apparently . . . But she told me how you wanted her when it was just the two of you, but add anyone else into that mix, and she became your afterthought—"

"She's never been my—"

"I don't give a shit, what she is or isn't to you, Ashur!  I'm telling you how she sees it—how she interpreted it all, and either you want to hear it or you don't, but if you don't . . . " Trailing off, she dragged in another deep breath, struggled to retain the calm that was fast eluding her.  "Whatever your intentions were, I really don't care.  Jessa only saw what she saw, and her feelings are her own, so don't you dare argue your innocence to me.  You didn't want anyone else to know, right?  So, you dragged her off where no one would hear, no one would smell, no one would see—and maybe—maybe—I can understand that to some extent, but it doesn't matter because she doesn't.  All she sees is another person in her life who handed her off—not to the nannies or the governesses or the private schools, but it's all the same, isn't it?  Out of sight, out of mind, and no one—no one—needs to know your dirty little secret . . . right, Ashur?"

He winced, had the grace to blush as he squeezed his eyes closed, as he slowly shook his head.  "I thought . . . I thought it would ruin her good name," he muttered.  "I thought . . ."

"And the gifts?"

He grimaced, shot Myrna a baleful glower.  "That is a misunderstanding," he insisted.  "I know what she thought, but . . . But that wasn't ever my intention, and if I could just talk to her, I'd tell her—"

"You know, it's not even about the gifts!  It's about the affection that isn't there!  If you'd stopped for just five minutes, took that time to touch her, to smile at her—hell, just to give her a hug for no good reason, then she wouldn't have even thought that, in the first place!  She can't read your mind, Ash, and you can't read hers!  How the two of you got so far, I'll never know.  For the love of God, you realize, don't you?  Everything you've done to her from the start—all of it . . . And . . . And I'm so damn stupid because I thought . . ."

"Thought what?" Ashur bellowed, his temper snapping at last.  "What did you think, Myrna?  You . . . You dumped her on me without a backward glance!  You—"

"I thought you could fix her, damn it!  I thought that, if anyone could reach her, could help her, it would be someone who knew loss because I sure as hell don't!  You were supposed to reach out to her, to help her, to be her friend, and all you've done is break her—break her beyond recognition—to the point that I don't know if she can be fixed!  You did that, not me!  Damn you, Ashur, how the hell could you do that?  How?"

Eyes flaring wide, just for a moment, just before he raked his hands through his hair—hair that had escaped the low hanging ponytail he normally wore, he grimaced at whatever he was thinking as he slowly shook his head, as he heaved a frustrated sigh.  "She . . ."

Smashing her hands against her eyes for a second, willing back the anger that had frothed forward, thick and ugly, she let out a deep breath.  "What do you see when you look at her, Ash?  Just tell me that."

He seemed confused by her question, or maybe it wasn't her question.  Maybe it was more of a general confusion, brought on by not really understanding, why she'd ask him something that should have been obvious . . . "She's . . . She's beautiful . . . I . . ."

Myrna nodded.  "Okay, then I guess a better way to say it is, what do you see when you look at yourself in the mirror?"

He shook his head.  "That's . . . I . . . I just see myself."

"Do you know what Jessa sees?  Every single time she looks in the mirror?"

His answer was a dark look, a slight narrowing of his gaze.

Myrna made a face.  "She sees the names, the taunts, the hateful things that people—that girls—have said to her over the years.  She sees the years of her nannies' complaints about the tangles and snarls that hair like hers would invariably end up in.  She sees the black dye her mom used to wash into her hair every damn day—the straightening iron she used every damn day—to keep the other kids from making fun of Raggedy Ann, of Lil' Orphan Annie . . . I heard all this.  Orlaith used to complain about it all the time—how Jessa would cry to her daddy, and he would fire those nannies, only to hire another, and it all began again . . . How her daddy would see her hair, would burn out the dye, would revert her hair to the curls and the bouncy locks that he loved so much . . . How there wasn't a damn thing on earth that could do anything about that ghostly skin of hers—that beautiful Irish complexion?  Milk maid, they teased her . . . Too tall, too skinny, too this, too that, with only her daddy to tell her that she was pretty . . . These were things her mother told me.  Now . . . do you understand?"

To his credit, Ashur looked dully appalled by the truth, so eloquently stated—appalled, and a little sickened, too.  Hand shaking as he reached up to rub his forehead, color drained out of his face, leaving him pale and almost a sickly shadow of himself . . .

"That's why it's so easy for her to believe that she means nothing to you," Myrna reiterated, stomping past him, refilling his glass and filling one for herself, too.  "So much easier to believe these terrible things—like she's nothing but a convenient fuck . . ." She sighed.  "Did you say that, Ashur?  Did you, really?"

He grimaced, taking the drink she handed him, tossing it back in one large gulp.  "It's not what she thought," he muttered, but his voice lacked any real conviction.  "It was . . . was someone from that faction.  They found me, and they found out about her, and . . . and they had . . . pictures . . ."

Myrna nodded.  "And you were trying to downplay your relationship to keep them away from her."

He jerked his head once in a nod of agreement, looking all the more miserable in the doing.  "I . . . I didn't know she'd heard me or I'd have told her . . . I . . ." He winced, blue eyes clouding over, darkening as he scowled at the wall.  "I didn't want to . . . hurt . . . her . . ."

"Is she your mate?"

His head snapped to the side, his gaze startlingly direct, and he narrowed his eyes as she saw the stubbornness kick in.  Whether he wasn’t sure or if he just didn't want to tell her, she didn't know, but she quickly shook her head before he could start blustering.  "You need to tell me, Ashur.  I need to know.  Everything—everything—depends upon your answer."

He glared at her for a long second.  She thought that he really wasn't going to answer her.  Then he winced.  "I . . . Y-Yes," he whispered, no more than a breath, as though maybe it was the first time he was actually admitting that much, even to himself.

Myrna nodded.  "I thought so.  Then you need to know . . . When I got home last night, Jessa was on the phone.  She . . . She was talking to the MacDonnough.  She . . . She accepted his offer.  He'll allow her to go home, back to her home, but she's agreed to marry whomever he's chosen."

"The hell—!" he exploded.

Myrna held up a hand to stop him before he could really get going.  "The courier brought by her itinerary just before I came over here.  Her flight is leaving at four today.  You have until one to figure out if you're going to let her go—and you know where that will leave you—or if you're going to take this one last chance to get things right, because you're the only one who can—if she'll even listen to you now."

"Over my dead body," he growled.

Setting the glass aside on a table, Myrna strode over to retrieve her bag, digging into the side compartment, pulling out a keycard for her condo.  "I left her, sleeping on the sofa where she fell asleep last night.  She was exhausted . . . cried herself out, actually . . . This is absolutely your last chance, you know?  You need to fix this before it's too late—for both of you—for Kells . . ."  Handing over the card, she shouldered the bag, reached for the door.  "I've got a plane to catch myself.  Cain asked me last night to look into something for him, so . . . Tell her you love her, Ash.  I get it.  You're Japanese, and it's a hard thing for you to say, but you do if she's your mate.  Just, uh . . . leave that card on the table, will you?"

Then she opened the door and stepped out onto the porch, biting her lip with a frown, wondering if it was just too little, too late—and praying that it wasn't . . .

Ashur frowned as he stretched out on his bed, as he gently pushed Jessa's hair back off of her face.  He'd gone straight to Myrna's and, instead of waking her, he'd gathered her up, raced her home across rooftops and through alleys, as he tried to make sense of the things that Myrna had said.  Just how in the hell was it that she honestly could think that she was anything less than perfect?  That she was anything less than drop-dead gorgeous . . .? It made no sense to him, and yet . . .

He winced inwardly, clenching his jaw tight as a surge of seething rage shot through him—rage at unknown faces, unknown people—who had the audacity to belittle her—to try to tear her down . . . And yet, if he were honest, it was there the whole time, wasn't it?  In the depths of her gaze, in the surprise on her face, in the embarrassment that always surfaced about the time he called her beautiful . . .

He had no idea, just how his intentions had gotten so twisted around, like every single thing he'd tried to do for her had blown up in his face, had ended up, having the opposite effect . . . He hadn't realized, though maybe he should have . . . He'd never thought . . .

But staring at her in the harsh light of the mid-morning sun that spilled through the bank of windows on the far wall, Ashur had no idea, just where to start, just what to say, if he had the right to say anything at all, and yet . . . And yet, there wasn't a choice in it, because Myrna was right.  It really was his very last chance . . .

His frown deepened as he gazed at the harsh shadows, the smudges of darkness underneath the sooty fringe of her lashes.  Was it just his imagination, the way her cheeks seemed to be sunken just a little, the usual glow of her skin seemed diminished . . .?

"Jessa," he murmured, grasping her hand, cradling it to his cheek as he heaved a weary sigh.  He hadn't slept at all in the night, unable or unwilling, he didn't know.  He hadn't heard the murmurs, the innuendos, but he didn't doubt what Myrna had said, either.  The one thing he'd never wanted to do to Jessa, and he'd accomplished it anyway, and with ridiculous fanfare, too . . .

'Just what . . . am I supposed to say to her?  I never meant to . . .' he sighed.

'You could try talking to her, for starters . . . All these things you thought you were doing right, and it turns out that you weren't . . . But you didn't know, didn't realize, and . . . and she needs to know that, doesn't she . . .?'

'Then what in the hell should I start with?'

'Well, you could start with, 'I love you', like Myrna suggested . . . That might get her attention . . .'

He made a face.  'I'm Japanese.  We don't . . . I mean, that's just not something . . .'

'It's not something you say.  I get that.  I do.  I understand that it feels odd, maybe even unnatural, but you know, Jessa . . . She isn't Japanese, and you're not in Japan, and if you really want her to listen to you, maybe you should consider, bending the rules, just a little . . .'

"I . . . love . . . you," he murmured with a frown, wondering if the words really sounded as weird out loud as they did in his mind.

'Yeah, okay, so maybe you ought to try that when she's awake, Kyouhei.'

His retort was cut short by a wide yawn, and he blinked, fighting to keep his eyes open, but something about her proximity, regardless of whether or not she was seriously angry with him . . . She still calmed him, soothed him . . .

The real problem was that he had no idea, just where to start, how to explain things to her when everything had gone so awry.  He had to fix it.  There wasn't a choice, and he knew it.  Everything in his life had come down to this: to one insular moment where he could fix things—had to fix things—or let everything go—everything.

Somewhere along the line, she'd become so much more than he'd ever bargained for that first day, when he'd opened the door, when he'd let her into his home, into his life, into Kells' life . . .

"I thought you could fix her, damn it!  I thought that, if anyone could reach her, could help her, it would be someone who knew loss because I sure as hell don't!  You were supposed to reach out to her, to help her, to be her friend, and all you've done is break her—break her beyond recognition—to the point that I don't know if she can be fixed!  You did that, not me!  Damn you, Ashur, how the hell could you do that?  How?"

Grimacing as Myrna's words came back to him, he sighed.  All of those things she'd said in the beginning . . . All of it was a well-constructed act, designed to get Ashur to agree to take Jessa in because Myrna . . . She'd cared more than she ever wanted to admit, all along . . . and somehow, that made sense, too . . .

But even if Myrna had issued her own advice, given him insight that he hadn't had before . . . There were so many things that Ashur hadn't told her, and whether he was trying to protect her—that's what he'd told himself—or if he simply hadn't wanted to deal with those things . . .

He . . . He really hadn't given Jessa those things that she needed to hold onto.  Those things that he'd told himself were far too ugly for a girl like her to ever understand . . . The reality was that he . . . He was the one who was afraid—afraid of thinking about those things, afraid of having to deal with them on a level that maybe he hadn't done before . . . And yet, those things . . . They were the often-ugly truths that had formed him into who he was, and just how could she ever feel as though she knew him—really knew him—without that base understanding . . .?

Even so, something told him that it still wasn't time—not now.  Right now, he just had to convince her that those bigger things that frightened her only existed in her mind—to convince her to believe . . .

And maybe, just maybe, there really were still dreams, even for someone like him . . . Maybe Jessa was the dream he'd been living without for so long—for an entire lifetime or more—and if he could fix it—really fix it . . . maybe …

Eyes drifting closed as he pulled Jessa back against his chest, as he wrapped his body around hers, absently savoring the warmth of her that felt so comfortable, so familiar, so welcome, he sighed.

Maybe . . . he could believe in dreams, too . . .