Her jaw flexes. “Not the right people,” she mutters.
She stares and stares, until Greta’s voice whips out of the house and drags us back inside.
I drag myself back to the present, to the girl-woman on the floor in front of me, shaking her head like she can dislodge the memory.
“You looked at it like it was the only way out,” I say quietly. “Don’t tell me you didn’t.”
Fresh tears spill over. She forces her eyes open and lifts her chin, defiant even on her knees.
“I looked at it because it was there,” she snaps. “Because it wasn’t that house. I hatedallof it. The house. The yard. This cabin.” Her voice cracks. “And I hate you for dragging me back after I finally got away.”
I hate you.
The words hit like a fist to the sternum. For a second, the room wavers. It’s my mother’s suitcase on Christmas morning all over again, the door slamming, the quiet that followed.
A strained, bitter laugh escapes me—more a rasp of pain than true amusement. “If that’s how you feel...” I murmur. The softness of my tone belies the rage and hurt coiling tight inside me. I force a cold, thin smile to my lips, even as they threaten to tremble. “Then I think we both need a minute.”
Meredith’s defiant mask falters into uncertainty. She watches warily through her tears as I move to a corner of the room. From a rusted hook on the wall I take a length of rope, the extra cord I had prepared. Without a word, I crouch and loop it tightly around the bindings at her ankles, then secure the loose end to the heavy cast-iron radiator bolted to the floor. The knot is strong; she won’t be going anywhere now.
She doesn’t fight me. She just sits there limply, exhausted and trembling, as I tug the rope taut and test the knot. Satisfied, I rise to my feet.
“There,” I say quietly. “So you don’t get any ideas while I’m gone.”
She flinches at the wordgone, shoulders hunching. I almost take it back. Almost untie her just to prove I’m not them.
I glance back. Meredith is staring at me, eyes huge and glossy, breath hitching in little silent sobs. Fear sits on her like a second skin. So does the past.
“We’re not kids anymore,” I tell her, the words rough. “No one’s going to drag you out of here in the middle of the night and dump you somewhere worse. You’re staying. With me.”
That should reassure her. It doesn’t. Her face crumples further.
“I’m going to get food,” I add, because practical things are easier to say than everything else clawing at my throat. “You should try to rest. You’ve got a lot to get used to.”
Our life.
The words stay behind my teeth this time. Saying them out loud would make them sound as fragile as they feel.
I open the door and step through into the small living room. The hinges groan; the sound makes her flinch. I pause with my hand still on the knob, back pressed to the wood, listening.
On the other side, I hear her breathing, uneven and shaking. One small, choked sob slips out before she swallows it down. It cuts straight through every scar I’ve grown over the last decade.
I close my eyes and lean my head back against the door, dragging in a breath that tastes like smoke and pine and the salt of her tears on my tongue.
She’s here. After all the years and plans and empty nights, she is finally here.
And I will do whatever it takes to make her see it the way I do.
Inside that room is the only good thing the world ever gave me, tied to a radiator and cursing my name.
All I’ve ever wanted is her.
Chapter Six
Meredith
Mywristsarezip-tiedin front of me, tight enough to leave angry grooves, loose enough that Nick can pretend it’s mercy.
I’ve been on this bed for hours, listening to the wind claw at the windows, the occasional creak of floorboards outside the room.
