“You need to be cleaned up,” his voice is one I'd forever remember. Sometimes he's more chatty than others. I wish he wasn't.
His fingers wrap around the chain that binds me, and he yanks. My shoulders scream. Joints pop.
“Walk.”
My legs don't remember how. Two years of kneeling, crouching, hanging—muscles have forgotten their purpose. I collapse the moment he releases the chain, my body hitting stone like a sack of wet sand.
He sighs. Disappointed. The worst sound.
“Get up.”
I try. God, I try. My arms shake, bones grinding against each other as I push against the floor. Everything burns. Everything breaks.
A boot connects with my ribs.
Air leaves my lungs in a rush, and I curl into myself, a wounded animal protecting soft organs from the next blow.
“Pathetic.” He crouches beside me, that mesh veil brushing my cheek. “Two years, and you still haven't learned.”
Learned what? How to die properly? How to stop wanting to live?
His hand finds my hair—what's left of it—and he drags me upward. My scalp screams, but I don't make a sound. Sounds only encourage him.
My feet find the floor. Somehow. Muscle memory from a life before this one kicks in, and I manage three steps before my knees buckle again.
He releases me—
The memory shatters like glass against concrete.
My hand trembles around my coffee mug, the ceramic clicking against my teeth when I take a sip. Cold. The coffee's gone cold, and I don't remember how long I've been standing here, staring at that text message like it holds the secrets to the universe.
Distractions are good. Relax.
Easy for him to say. He's not the one trapped in a snow globe with a man who looks at her like she's the last drink of water in a desert. He's not the one whose body keeps betraying every logical thought in her head.
“You look like you've seen a ghost.”
I spin, coffee sloshing over the rim.
Asher leans against the kitchen doorframe, arms crossed, watching me with those eyes that see too much. He's already dressed for the Games—black thermal gear hugging every line of his body, hair still damp from a shower.
“Maybe I have.” I set the mug down, wiping my hand on my jeans. “This house has enough of them.”
He doesn't laugh. Just keeps staring, that crease between his brows deepening. “You were somewhere else just now.”
“I'm always somewhere else.” I force a smile. “It's called having thoughts. You should try it sometime.”
The deflection doesn't land. He pushes off the doorframe and crosses the kitchen in three long strides, stopping close enough that I have to tip my head back to meet his gaze.
“Where do you go?” His voice drops low, just for me. “When you look like that?”
“Nowhere good.”
“That's not an answer…” he warns, as if waiting. For what, I don't know.
“It's the only one you're getting.”
We stand there, locked in a battle neither of us will win. The morning light catches the sharp edge of his jaw, the shadows beneath his eyes. He didn't sleep either. Good. Misery loves company.
