I shove the words down, refuse to speak them aloud. I won’t give this broken part of my mind that much power. But the weight of its presence presses on my chest, drumming against my ribs like a war cry. Avery shifts slightly in my arms, murmuring something unintelligible in her sleep. I focus on her warmth, on the rise and fall of her breath. On the way her fingers twitch against my arms.
She belongs to me.
The shadow recoils, twisting in on itself and writhing like a dying flame. I don’t let go of Avery. Not even when my limbs start to shake. I won’t let anything or anyone take her from me.
When I brave a look over my shoulder, I find that we’re alone once more. The only shadows lurking around the tent are the ones cast through the gnarled fingers of trees outside, bathed in moonlight. I suck in a sharp breath, squeezing my eyes shut. The tent is calm again, and Avery is still safe in my arms. The air isn’t thick with rot and regret, but resignation. Deep down, I seem to know that he isn’t coming back. Ray is gone, but I don’t mourn his loss this time. I just hold Avery closer, tethering myself to her world. The one I keep falling further and further away from.
One thing is for certain. Things have changed. Just as Avery molded herself into our small family like she was always supposed to be there, she’s infiltrated my being. Forced her way in, revealing fissures I didn’tknow I had. Issues I’d been too comfortable to ignore, but have now been brought to the lift where I’ll have to deal with them.
These thoughts tumble through my mind for what feels like hours, to the point where I don’t know if I’m awake or asleep. Usually, when I’m plagued this way, I would be hunched over a notepad, writing until my mind was empty. Avery doesn’t even know the worst of it. She’s only seen a tiny fraction of the words I write. The polished, finessed versions. And now that she knows I’m the man she calls Mr. XO, she won’t accept any more of my letters. She won’t listen to my words. I’m stuck with them.
I’ve never appreciated it. The form of therapy, the mental release. Like siphoning the poison from my brain. In the wilderness, holding the woman of my darkest desires and knowing she’s never been further away, I withhold a bitter, self-directed laugh. She was never supposed to see me like this. Raw and unmasked. She was supposed to seehim—the version of me I could never truly become. The man she imagined I was.
But there’s no hiding anymore. No pen and paper to shield me. Just this crushing, unbearable truth. I love her more than I hate myself, and that terrifies me. Because there are no lengths that I won’t go to to ensure she lives another day. I need her alive to keep punishing me, to keep reminding me of the shit I’ve done.
Apologies won’t take back Meg’s identity. Letters can’t prevent the damage I’ve caused. Words can’t convince Avery that it was the only way to protect her. None of these words matter anymore.
Words are empty without action, and my actions are unforgivable.
Chapter Five
The sun filters through the barren canopy above, gnarled branches causing the dappled light to cast patterns across the forest floor. We left at the buttcrack of dawn, actively ignoring the way we woke up. I’d turned in the night and draped myself over Wyatt’s body with my face in the crook of his neck. I didn’t have time to be mortified at my drool against his skin because my hand was gripping his cock through his boxers. What’s even worse is that he was hard and responsive to every twitch of my fingers.
Not thinking about it. Nope, no thank you. A quick change into our hastily packed sweats and a few cubes of gum shoved into my mouth, and we were out of there.
A caw sounds overhead, a crow igniting my jealousy with its ability to fly off into the wilderness. Shouldering my pack higher, I try to distribute the weight of supplies evenly. My legs ache, my back protests, and the damp chill that had evaded me overnight has returned with a vengeance. What I'd give to eat something that isn’t a packaged brioche.
Ahead of me, Wyatt trudges along, his broad shoulders squared as though the strain of his pack doesn’t bother him. He’s managed to shake the foul mood he woke up in, claiming to have had a nightmare, but I would honestly rather he was pissed off because I am. I’m sore and tired, the little sleep I had doing nothing to revitalize me, and looking at him soldering on with infuriating ease is making my headache evenworse. Baxter trots between us, his tail wagging, seemingly oblivious to the tension radiating from me.
“Would it kill you to slow down?” I snap, swatting at a low-hanging branch before it smacks me in the face. Wyatt glances over his shoulder, his expression as bored as ever.
“Would it kill you to keep up? I thought ballerinas were meant to have stamina.” I glare daggers at the back of his head, my steps quickening just enough to draw level with him.
“And I thought basketball players were meant to be about team spirit. I must say, my morale is scraping across the ground beneath my sneakers right now.”
“Would a pep talk stop you from whining?” Wyatt smirks, the kind that makes me want to throw something at him.
I open my mouth to retort but am interrupted by Baxter letting out a low bark. He bounds ahead, his nose to the ground, tail wagging furiously. Wyatt and I exchange a glance before following him, my boots crunching over dry leaves and twigs. It’s the most excitement we’ve had all morning, and for a brief, fleeting moment, I dare to hope Baxter’s found something useful. A sign telling us where we are perhaps? Anything to signal the end of this endless sea of trees.
Instead, we find him pawing at a moss-covered log, thoroughly enthralled by a family of ants. I sigh, rubbing at the bridge of my nose.
“You must be hungry, old boy. We’ll get you some food soon.” Wyatt crouches beside the dog, scratching behind his ears. I drop my pack with a dramatic thud, crossing my arms.
“Will we, though? You have no idea how far we are from anywhere,” I sigh, planting my hands firmly on my hips. There I go, straight back to whining, apparently. Wyatt straightens, towering over me as his smirk fades into something sharper, more serious.
“We just need to keep following the road.” He growls, his eyes quickly dropping to my split lip and then up again. My gaze strays to the left, where I know the road to be at the top of a grassy back. I’m not sure why we have to navigate the uneven forest rather than walk along the smooth tarmac, but alas, Wyatt is in charge. For now.
Tilting my head back, I look at him properly for the first time today. His eyes are a darker green today, shrouded by the dark circles surrounding them. His ruffled hair is desperately lacking the stylingproducts he would normally use, but that doesn’t detract from his overall appeal. To someone else, not me. I couldn’t give two shits that his head is tilting forward, bringing his sharp nose and occasional smirks closer to my level. Or that the smudge of dirt on his jaw could be considered endearing.
“Lead the way. I don’t want to have to camp out here another night.” My voice cracks, an unwelcome memory surfacing at that moment. Wyatt must have the exact same one, because his eyes flash and a sharp inhale is drawn through his parted lips.Fuck. Is it too much to ask the universe to make him ugly? It would make my life so much easier if I could hate him without my libido popping up to say hi every time he looks at me.
Wyatt strides away, and Baxter nudges my leg, breaking through my thoughts. I let out a shaky breath, reaching down to ruffle his fur.
“Come on then,” I mutter, grabbing my pack and hoisting it onto my shoulders. Wyatt has stalled by a trunk, casually waiting for me to catch up this time, rather than trailing me around on an invisible leash. I stop to tilt my head up and ask him something that’s been on my mind. A simple hope I hadn’t dared voice, but whether I like it or not, Wyatt is currently my only companion.
“Do you think, if we’re out here long enough, Nixon might come looking for me?” My voice is small, careful not to insinuate that Nixon might look for him too. Regardless, Wyatt chuckles under his breath and we fall into step along the uneven ground.
“I don’t know if you’ve realized,” he muses, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, “but Nixon doesn’t give a shit about you anymore.” His words slam into me harder than the cold ever could. My steps falter with the cracking of twigs.
