My stomach twists violently.
“You were trying to be brave,” he continues. “Trying to play hero. And now?” He leans closer, his voice lowering. “Now you get to live with it.”
I finally turn my head and look at him.
He’s watching me like I’m something he owns now. Like I’m a problem he’s already solved.
And in that moment, bound to a bed in a cheap hotel room, my body aching and my heart shattered, one truth becomes terrifyingly clear.
Whatever happens next… Blade was the only thing standing between me and this. And I don’t know if he’s alive anymore.
He doesn’t answer me right away.
That’s how I know whatever he’s about to say is going to hurt worse than the punch did.
I lie there, wrists burning where the cuffs bite into my skin, chest heaving as I wait. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, until it feels like it’s pressing down on me from every direction.
Then he sighs, almost gently.
“You know,” he says, “this is the part where people usually beg. Or scream. Or ask me to promise things I was never going to give them anyway.”
I swallow hard. My throat feels raw, like I’ve been crying for hours instead of minutes. “Where is he?”
He shifts, and I hear the scrape of a chair being pulled closer. The mattress dips slightly as he sits down, not touching me, not yet. Somehow that’s worse.
“You really loved him,” he says, like it’s an observation, not an accusation. “That biker of yours.”
My chest tightens violently.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
He ignores me.
“You know what’s going to happen now, right?” he continues calmly. “Once they find the bike. Once they find the blood. Once they start piecing together what went down on that road.”
I shake my head, even though some part of me already knows.
“They’re going to look at you,” he says, voice smooth, measured, “and they’re going to see a problem.”
My pulse spikes. “No. They won’t. They know me.”
He hums softly. “Do they?”
I close my eyes, but his words keep coming, slipping into every crack in my fear.
“Think about it,” he says. “You’re alive. He isn’t.” He lets that hang there, then adds quietly, “At least, that’s how it’s going to look.”
A sob claws its way out of my chest.
“They’ll find the shell casing,” he continues. “They’ll find the angle. They’ll see that the shot came from your position.” His voice drops. “And they already know we’ve been watching them.”
My stomach twists.
“I’ll make sure they know you were talking to me,” he says easily. “That you hesitated. That you had doubts. That you were looking for a way out.”
“That’s not true,” I cry. “I would never—”
“Truth is flexible,” he interrupts. “Especially when grief gets involved.”
