But that’s a promise he can’t make because he has no idea what it’s like to be on this side. “You’re already hurting me.”
His eyes drop and I push away from him because it’s true. Because it feels like my mind is tearing itself apart, thinking up a dozen new questions each second with no way to get the answers, no way to escape their rhetorical dread.
As my panic increases, I glance around the room, looking for something to snag my attention, to dampen my fear and take this horrible aching sensation away.
They settle on a pot plant near the bed. Just on the other side of the cabinet. If I could get him out of the room for just a few seconds, I could tip out the last of my drink, maybe halving the effects.
Enough to stay awake but feign unconsciousness. Enough for him to get whatever he needs done and if it turns out to be something I can’t endure, I can try to get the hell away.
Tears prickle at the backs of my eyes and instead of sniffing them back, I encourage them to flow. “Could I have some tissues?”
Maddox’s face twists with remorse and I think he’s about to say something, then he shakes his head and walks into the bathroom. I leap for the plant, dumping the contents from my glass into the bark.
It immediately soaks the chips darker. The scent of alcohol is stronger but there’s not much I can do about that. When Maddox comes back into the room, I’m swirling the few last dregs of the drink in the glass, knocking it back as his keen eyes watch.
When I tilt it towards him, showing him it’s empty, he takes it from my fingers. A wave of warmth crashes over me and I’m as scared of enjoying this sensation as I am of what he has planned. If I like the feeling too much, I don’t need a public health warning to know where that might lead.
The thought makes me teary again and I grab tissues, soaking them before grabbing more to blow my nose. Maddoxseats himself on the bed, this time taking me in his arms with such a determined grip I can’t struggle free.
My heart slows, barely bothering to thump. The world is hazy, glowing with promise. I close my eyes and it’s hard work to lever them open again.
Panic worms into my consciousness, then dissolves under the glorious sensations pouring from my brain. My limbs are heavy, sinking into the bed. If it weren’t for his arms, I would float to the bottom of the ocean, contentedly smiling as I drown.
“What do you have against pot plants?” Maddox whispers in my ear and instead of feeling fear at being caught out, I giggle, too lazy to even shake my head.
Saliva pools in my mouth and it takes a concerted effort to swallow, consciously making my body perform all the tiny, coordinated movements required, exhausting the last of my willpower.
I open my eyes, vision blurry even though he’s so close. Close enough to touch. Close enough that when I push my chin forward just the tiniest bit, I can kiss his lips, drowning in the sensation, all my alarm bells muffled with the cotton wool of whatever drugs he gave me.
No inhibitions, no sense of self-preservation.
No control.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MADDOX
For the first half hour,I lie there, cradling Evie as she slips in and out of consciousness, still recovering from the guilt at what I put her through. Watching her struggle to swallow the pills was torture.
All that pain for both of us and I walked out of the bathroom to find she’d vetoed my experiment, pouring out her drink.
I’ve probably fucked our relationship beyond repair while the dull ache of loss stays lodged right where it always is, in the marrow of my bones.
It was cruel to choose such a slow method. I roll onto my back, tugging my phone out to place an order for an injectable solution instead. A shot that won’t give her time to regret her decision. Not that I hold much hope of her allowing this again.
With my arms back around her, I open my mouth, but all the words I wanted to whisper to my faux-Addie have gone, turning to dust on my tongue. I can’t say them aloud because I can’t bear for Evie to wake and hear them.
She probably won’t rouse far enough to understand my whispered words. Even if she does, it’s unlikely she’d remember them.
Probably.
Unlikely.
They’re not words to stake the worst secrets in your life upon.
“I’m sorry.” The words are inadequate, would be even if she were fully awake to hear them. “If I’d known how awful it would be for you, I never would’ve asked.”
My eyes scan her face, searching for a response from this girl who should have run the moment I walked into a fast-food restaurant bathroom, yet for some unfathomable reason stayed.
