Page 195 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part Two

Dust and thick tan tarps cover the small amount of furniture scattered around the first floor.

A metal chimney chute goes from what looks like a large stone oven, and the inside is so black that it feels like an open portal to Hell.

I lift one of the tarps to find glass vases tipped on their sides. The different colors cause a kaleidoscope to reflect on the wall across from the open barn-style door.

The way the art pieces scatter across the worktable, I know not to touch them. It’s like they’re a moment in time—a frozen scene in the Sandoval household that shouldn’t be disturbed, or it’ll be lost forever.

I gently replace the covering.

“You can look at them.”

I jump about a foot in the air, spinning around with a hand on my chest. It only takes me a second to realize it’s Storm’s voice, but my heart races anyway.

“You scared me!” I say, pointing out the obvious. I look up to him as he stands on the bottom stairs, his hands in his pockets.

His smile comes slowly. It’s a sad expression.

I look around, taking in the shelves with glasswork on the opposite wall and the paintings hung throughout the space.

In front of a tall window, a rectangular sheet of colored mosaic glass hangs from two metal wires that go all the way to the ceiling a story above.

Taking a step closer, I hold my breath as I analyze the art. The piece has to be about eleven feet long, and what I identify as a raging river made of glass flows down the length of the piece. Surrounding the shore, flames encompass the river. The river looks powerful; the fire seems powerful. A battle of two beautifully destructive forces.

“You made this?” I ask Storm when I feel him move behind me. With the light casting through the glass, it looks otherworldly.

“Yes, I made it years ago,” he says, and I look around the space.

“This studio doesn’t seem very used,” I reply, and he chuckles a bit.

“I didn’t make it here. Just had them display it here.”

“Why?” I ask, bewildered. “Why not have it hang inside where it can be enjoyed?” I turn to face him fully, and the look he gives me is heartbreaking, tender.

“It was too hard to look at every day,” he replies.

“Why?” I whisper, and he runs his index finger down my cheek. I keep my eyes open.

“It’s because it’s us, Sweetness,” he says back just as softly. I feel my expression shift, and he turns me around with a hand on each of my shoulders.

“See the river running down? It’s how I see you: formidable, unstoppable, on your path to your destiny.” I look hard at the glass, seeing the vision as he describes it.

“And the flames?” I ask after I clear my throat. His hands remain on my shoulders, and I want to curl into him like a cat.

“An equally powerful element, an acknowledgement that they can get close to each other, but if they cross the line, they’ll destroy the other.”

There’s so much sadness in his words, I want to cry.

“So, if I’m the river, you’re the fire?” I ask, and instead of replying, he places a kiss on the top of my head.

And I let him.

I should hate him, hate who he’s become, but standing here with his powerful frame behind me, it feels impossible.

I simply can’t.

And what does that say about me? That a man who hurt me so deeply, so profoundly, would still have a place in my heart?

How can I still have feelings for a man I watched murder someone without remorse, who makes commands and expects everyone to follow?