But any fight or determination she’d had before is gone. She’s a shell of a woman, broken by her circumstances. Circumstances that I, in part, created.
She’s an unwilling captive with someone she views as a heartless monster. The jury’s still out on whether or not I actually am one. Even I can’t decide. Most of the time, it’s easier to pretend to be the villain she wants me to be.
I shouldn’t have let her go to that hospital alone, but she also needs to see every side of death in order to embrace it, no matter how painful. Still, maybe I should have given her a less traumatic lesson first.
She had gotten under my skin last night when she returned, and when I snapped, she hadn’t even attempted tofight back; She had simply told me that if I were going to kill her, I should “get it over with.”
But I saw her reaction when I raised my voice. She flinched, not because I was loud, but because she’s lived too long with the kind of men who get loud before they get violent. Holding a knife to her throat was not one of my finer moments. I think that maybe I was hoping for a reaction, anything to break through the hollow numbness consuming her. It didn’t work, though.
I wish she would fight, yell,somethingto show me she’s still holding onto any spark of feeling, but it’s like she’s gone nearly catatonic, and I have no clue how to change that. I worry I’ve only dragged her deeper into the darkness she’s been drowning in.
My only rule for myself is not to get entangled in humans’ lives, but that’s exactly what I have done. I should have never interfered, but I also couldn’t stand to watch her die when she has the potential to live a life away from all the hardships she’s faced. She’s not ready to be on her own yet, though; she has no money and no plan, and her mental health is just as precarious as it was previously. I was the one who gave her hope, ironically enough, and now she’s lost it again.
It was a choice where I knew I would be the villain either way.
This was all a terrible idea. She doesn’t even know she’s alive because of me, and I do not know if that would make her hate me more or less. As soon as she took that blade to her wrist and I had to choose between waiting to take her life or making sure she survived, I did something I haven’t done in a very long time: I chose to save life instead of taking it. It was easy to slip her good-for-nothing husband’s badge back onto the bathroom countertop where he frequently leaves it.
I keep telling myself that I should forget about her, that I should tell her the deal is off and she is free to live the rest of her life.
I won’t, though. I can’t. While I justify it to myself by reasoning that it’s safer for her here than anywhere else, that’s not entirely true. My own selfish motives are still guiding me.
Just as her obsession for me had grown before she knew my true nature, so has my fixation on her grown as I’ve watched her, even though she despises me. Even though I deserve every ounce of hatred she throws my way.
I’m trying, though. Trying to be better, trying to make her feel some semblance of safety. I’ve been closing the kitchen cabinets softly rather than letting them slam closed after noticing her flinch every time it’s too sudden or loud. If I wear my shoes inside the house, she freezes at the heaviness of my footsteps, so I’ve started taking them off at the door. When she scans my expression as soon as I walk into a room, I give her a smile, even if it’s a teasing one, or make a joke, even if it’s a sarcastic one. As soon as she rolls her eyes at me, it shows me that she’s annoyed but also feels safe enough to express her annoyance.
She’s felt unsafe in her own home for so long that every conversation is met with calculated hesitance as she attempts to decipher my emotions instead of focusing on her own. Her nervous system has been on edge for so long that everything holds the potential of a threat.
I may have broken my moral compass a long time ago, but I’m not entirely a monster. I just hope she’s able to see that in time.
CHAPTER 12
Ican't go back to the hospital. The gravity of witnessing that kind of tragedy still sits like a lead weight in my chest. Even now, days later, the memory of that mother's wail haunts my dreams.
I need a different approach. One that involves as little trauma as possible. Maybe that’s selfish of me, but I’m not strong enough to witness that sort of agony again.
These past few days of being holed up in my room have given me plenty of time to think. Too much time, really. The walls seem to close in a little more each day, but it's better than facing Ambrose after our last encounter. Like before, I only venture downstairs for food, timing my raids on the kitchen for when he's elsewhere in the house or outside.
So, I’ve been thinking. If I can't handle the emotional toll of watching people die in hospitals, what options do I have? I’ve been mulling over ideas, and though I don’t have any solid plans, concepts are beginning to take shape in my mind.
Ambrose isn’t in the kitchen or the living room when I go downstairs in search of him, so I head toward the open doorway across the living room. There, in the midst ofthousands of books lining the walls, is Ambrose, sitting on a recliner with a novel in his lap.
His gaze flicks up to me over the top of his book, but my attention is already diverted. My jaw hangs open at the sheer volume of texts lining the walls. Every wall, from floor to ceiling, is lined with wooden shelves packed with books. The only open wall space is the perimeter around the brick fireplace, which I now see is a double-sides fireplace connecting this room and the living room. Tucked back near the corner is a wooden desk, and the massive rug in the center of the room sits beneath two armchairs and a couch. The windows let in the soft glow of afternoon light that beams across the maroon carpet—and Ambrose’s thick, dark hair that falls over his forehead.
“Hello, Brielle.” My stomach flips at the way he purrs my name, but I push down the traitorous reaction.
“I need money,” I say in way of greeting, though I have a difficult time keeping my attention on him when the massive shelves around me hold a lifetime’s worth of reading material. It’s stunning, almost unbelievable. I can’t believe I’ve been in this house without knowing this room existed.
“May I ask why?”
“So I can go shopping for different clothes. I only brought a suitcase worth, and I’ll need some different outfits if I'm going to carry out my end of the deal. I have a plan. Sort of.”
Without hesitation, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls a thick fold of bills from his wallet, holding a small handful out to me. “Go nuts.”
I stare at the money, suspicious of his easy acquiescence. “Really?”
He furrows his brows. “Yes. Why, what's wrong?”
“Nothing.” I snatch the bills before he can change his mind. “Thanks. I'll be back tonight.”
