My mouth parts as restlessness coils through my bones. A rush of electric heat whips through me, and I want to slap myself for the emotion that rises next.
Regret.
But when my blurred sight sharpens and I realize the barrel is nudging with every breath he takes, reality slams into me. A soft click snaps in my ears, blending with the faint ringing and the shuffle of rain outside.
It’s empty.
The gun was fucking empty.
Relief and fury collide inside me, clashing in a violent cocktail that sends a jolt through my veins. When I lift my gaze, he’s looking at me with a calmness I’ve never seen before—an eerie stillness, like he’s made peace with something I haven’t.
He should be trembling. He should be furious. If there’d been a bullet, he’d already be sprawled on the floor in a red, spreading pool.
Instead, he stands there. Serene. Almost grateful.
Instinct kicks in, and I pull the trigger again, only to hear another soft, mocking click.
The sound taunts me, stoking a fresh blaze of annoyance that burns hotter than the first. Tears surge, blurring everything again, but when I focus on his gaze, something inside me freezes. My heart slams to a stop. I see the intention in his eyes, see exactly what he’s about to do, so I rip my hand from his grip and swing the gun at his head with everything I have left.
But the bastard catches it mid-arc.
His fingers clamp around my wrist, squeezing hard enough that black dots rim my vision. I try to wrench free, to fight, to claw—but my body betrays me. My bones feel heavy, useless, and the gun slips from my grasp, clattering to the floor in a loud, final thud.
I lift my free hand to strike him, but he seizes it mid-swing, too, pinning it against his chest—right over his heart. I wince, struggling, but his strength dwarfs mine, especially with despair and fury tearing through my veins, twisting tight like barbed wire.
“Let go, you fucking motherfucker!” I howl, tensing every muscle in my body to shove him back. I push, twist, even try to knee him, but he overpowers me effortlessly. Tears keep collecting, spilling, gluing my lashes together until I’m blinking through wet darkness.
“Ilove you, Estella,” he says, as if my screams and curses mean nothing. The words slip into me like another blade, lodging deep, twisting harder with every inch he holds me still. “Your suffering lives in me, and my wounds live in you. That’s why nothing in this world can destroy us when we stand as one.”
My skin bristles under his electric touch. It should sicken me. It should drag me straight back to the cold metal tables and high-pitched buzzing of the asylum—the crackling sting of voltage ripping through my nerves long before he ever entered my life.
But it doesn’t.
His touch has always been a fault line inside me. It drags emotions out of me I didn’t even know I had, and repulsion was never one of them. Even now, his hands feel too good—like a balm spread over wounds he’s the one who carved.
But the cuts are too deep. You can’t place a soft healing cream over a gaping, ugly wound that refuses to stop bleeding.
“I’ve killed for you,” he whispers, and the words send spikes through my skin. Then, the warmth of his breath soothes the cuts, just a fraction, just enough to torture. “And you’ve killed for me. We were made for each other.”
I try to shake my head, but it’s too heavy, lolling in a pathetic twitch instead. My lungs strain for air, but it feels thick and poisonous inside them—polluted with the venom he brings with every breath he exhales near me.
“I hate you,” I choke out, the anger buzzing under the words making my vision swim while emotions crash and collide inside me.
Rage. Pain. Betrayal.
And woven through the cracks, no matter how much I want to deny it—longing. The aching, humiliating desire for his comfort after everything he’s done.
His lips ghost across my cheek, and panic sparks bright and terrified in my chest. I feel his gaze on me, feel him watching every flinch, every twitch, as he murmurs more sugary lies into my skin.
What does he feel, touching me like this while I scream? Does he feel that veil of never-ending anger coiling beneath my surface? Does he see the rupture under the ashes—those scorching coals that burn even when you only look at them?
“Let me go!” I plead, my limbs pushing at him sluggishly, stupidly. My mind knows I need space, need distance, need him gone, but my body betrays me. It wants to lean into heat, into familiarity. Into pain wrapped in comfort.
“You know I will never do that,” he breathes, and I hear the hard swallow drop down his throat—the same throat I should’ve slit the moment I had the chance. “I willneverlet you go. I love you, Estella. I love you so fucking much.”
He keeps repeating it. Over and over.
And I choke on my own sobs.
