I stopped that thought in its tracks. Because no. Nicolas owed me an explanation. And I owed him the chance to explain himself. He had tried to be honest with me several times, and I had shut him down each time. Now I understood why.
It was one thing to be confronted with evidence of something impossible. It was another thing entirely to have the whole truth—to understand the context.
The truth was, I loved Nicolas. I hadn’t wanted to fear him. I hadn’t wanted to force him to out himself with me, either. That was part of why I had shut it down. And maybe I hadn’t wanted to drive home our differences, either. The emotions I had for him were raw and new, but they also felt like a continuation somehow. Like I had always loved him. But those were impossible feelings. And just how fragile were they?
The sudden sound of shattering glass interrupted my thoughts.
Down the hall, from Sam’s bedroom, there was a heavy thud—and then a man grunting in pain.
I shot to my feet, my brain going completely blank with fear.
Someone had just broken into the house.
I ran for the front door and threw the latch to undo the deadbolt. Twisted the lock on the knob. I was about to wrench the door open and run for safety—to Nicolas—when I heard it.
The unmistakable click of a gun hammer being cocked. The sound was like a kick in the gut.
“Turn around,” Eric said tightly from behind me. “Slowly. Hands up.”
Terror lanced through me. I did as he said.
Eric was holding a shiny silver revolver, leveled at my midsection. He was almost unrecognizable. He had once been lean and muscular, but he was rail-thin now. His once painstakingly tanned skin was pale, ashen, pockmarked with dozens of scars. There was an open wound on his cheek, a thumbnail-sized scab that looked recently picked. His soft, beautiful brown hair was now stringy and plastered to his forehead. There was a sheen of sweat on his skin, and his clothes were wrinkled and stained, as though they had been slept in for several days in a row. His eyes were far too wide, pupils blown out like pie plates. A vein in his forehead pulsed rapidly, which meant his heart was probably jackhammering in his chest. He looked like he’d aged at least fifteen years in five.
He grinned at me, revealing cracked teeth. “You look so good, Eli. Even better than when you left me.”
“Fuck,” I whispered, staring at him in horror. “What happened to you?”
“No! We’re not doing that!” he snapped, pulling his lips back in a snarl. “I’m holding the gun. That means you do what I say!”
“Sure,” I agreed immediately. My stomach sank as I realized he was high out of his mind, probably in the midst of a psychotic episode—whether from the drugs or because he’d never been all that stable to begin with. Probably both. I was in serious danger. I tried to keep my voice steady. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to say you’re sorry for leaving me.”
I hesitated.
“Say it!”
“I’m sorry I left you behind like this.”
Hurt filled his eyes, but he giggled—high-pitched and sudden. It made my flesh crawl.
“No, you’re not. But you will be.”
“I can help you.”
“Yeah, you can. I want you to call him over here.”
He meant Nicolas. A cold feeling settled in my stomach.
“And then what are you going to do?”
He grinned wildly, his eyes completely empty. “What do you think?”
“Eric—”
“No!” He hissed, waving the gun. “What did I say? I said you belong to me! You’ve always belonged to me. I won’t let him steal you.”
“We’ll get you help.”
