“I don’t hate you. Not even a little bit,” he said, tugging me closer and letting his head drop so it was resting on mine. “I’m not sure I ever could.”
“What about when I wake you up early in the morning?”
“Comes with the territory. And I know youtryto be quiet.”
“What about when I ask you about your books?” I sniffed into his T-shirt.
I felt him shrug as his arms tightened around me. “I like you asking.”
“What about?—”
“For tonight, let’s just agree that I like you, okay?”
Okay, for tonight.
Thallor pressed one last lingering kiss to my forehead before Mort settled in beside him. I let myself drift off in the warmth of his embrace, thinking not about that night, but instead about how wrong I’d been about Thallor. And how much I loved that I was.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
My eyes fluttered open as I took in my surroundings. The softness of my mattress was a stark contrast to the tight knot that had taken hold of my insides. I could feel the rise and fall of something soft next to me, Mortimer’s quiet purrs pulling me further from my daze. I shifted, feeling something tickling at my feet, which worked to dissipate the fog of sleep that had clutched to the corners of my mind. Sitting up, I took in my pillow-strewn living room and the monstera brushing against my exposed toes.
I stared into the eyes of Judd Nelson and his chagrined face as he took in the sight of Molly Ringwald and her high-brow sushi platter–one of my favourite scenes inThe Breakfast Club.The last thing I could remember was falling asleep in Thallor’s arms, but he was nowhere to be found as I wrapped my terracotta duvet around me, huddling into it as if it might blanket me from my own thoughts. But in the absence of Thallor, my apartment felt painfully quiet.
And without the distractions around me, without the distractions in my own head, the thoughts of the previous nightbombarded me like artillery fire, and I scrambled to my feet, legs weak below me as I dashed toward my bathroom. Dropping to the floor with a force that would likely leave my knees bruised, I retched over and over.
The concerned meows of my cat echoed out in between the sounds of bile hitting the porcelain bowl below me, but I could hardly hear them over the phrase that repeated in my head–a taunting, harrowing mantra of everything I’d done.
I killed a man. I killed a man. I killed a man.
My mind trapped me in the confines of my own torment, refusing to free me as the tears streaked down my face. I hung my head over the side of the toilet bowl and began to cry all over again.
It was self-defence.I pleaded with myself.
It was self-defence.As if that could possibly assuage the guilt I felt.
It was self-defence.As if my words could ever return the life to the man that had lay unflinching and unmoving in a carmine puddle of my own making.
I hated it. I hatedhim.I hated what he had tried to do. I hated what hemade me do.That man hadn’t taken my life, but he had taken the singular thread that was holding me together. I had to live with the aftermath of his actions, and I couldn’t help but feel like that was crueller than anything he could have done to me.
I was so lost. So hopelessly lost, traipsing down path after path in my own head, searching for the answer to how I might survive this, that I didn’t hear the front door open and close. I didn’t hear the creaking of floorboards or the heavy foot of Thallor as he walked into my bedroom. I only noticed his presence when he stooped down behind me, placing a tender hand on my back.
“I’m here. You’re safe,” he said quietly from behind me. “Do you want to talk about it?”
No. Yes.I did and I didn’t. But I knew deep down that I couldn’t. I’d never be able to feel those feelings again. Their rawness would never clutch at me with the same power they did when I’d felt them for the first time. All my body would allow me to do was rationalise them. Understand them. Dissect them with cool, separated logic.
“I called you, you know.” I could barely bring myself to say the words. The feeling of disappointment gnawed at me just below the skin, but the words came out choked. They came out hesitant. “You said the first night that I could call you and you would come.”
“I know, Sterling.” I could hear it in his voice. The guilt. “I’m sorry.”
“I called for you and you didn’t answer. Ineededyou.”I’ve never let myself need anyone before.
“Sterling.”
“I thought I was going to die.”
“I would never have let that happen,” he said, giving me a pleading look. Like he needed me to listen to him. Like he needed me to understand.
“Wouldn’t it have been easier? If I just…” The intent behind everything I said was cold and hard, but the words themselves came out soft. Like I barely had the courage to ask them.
