She stands up, and heads toward the kitchenette. I watch her carefully, studying her movements, the way her hair bounces with every step as she fills a kettle with water and places it on a burner. She spins around, arms crossed as she leans against the counter.
“You are getting sick, aren’t you?”
Sure. Let’s go with that.
I feign a tiny cough. “No, I’m fine. I just…"
As I search for a lie, my eyes widen. Oh, shit. Amid all this chaos and my plans to escape, I forgot I don’t have my pills. My immunosuppressants. Five days without a dose won’t kill me. As long as I genuinely don’t get sick. I could use this. Iwilluse this.
“I just don’t have my pills with me.” I place a hand over my chest. “For my…”
“Fuck,” she grumbles under her breath, and I guarantee I wasn’t meant to hear her say it.
She turns her back toward me, her hands gripping the edge of the counter. Too tight. Far too tight. She cares. Oh, she totally cares. The kettle whistles, and she yanks it aggressively, pouring the water into a mug.
With a sharp breath, she turns around. “You will drink this, Emery Jones. Every sip.” She strides toward me, kneeling down as she reaches the mattress. Her gaze locks on me, fierce and deadly. “Every sip, bella. Drink.”
I inhale the hot vapor. “What is it?”
Toni blinks. “Tea.”
Time to turn up the flirt.
A sly, teasing smile lifts the corner of my lips. “I know it’s tea, Toni,” I say. “I mean, whatkindof tea?”
“The kind that will keep you from getting sick,” she replies, gently bringing the mug to my lips. “Drink, Emery Jones.” I take a large sip and wince. Toni clicks her tongue, eyes narrowed. “Slowly, bella. Do not burn yourself.”
She’s quite close to me now. Her eyes are glued to my lips as they rest against the mug. I dart my tongue out, just a little, just enough that she sees it. That she wants it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’ll be more careful.”
“You apologize too often,” she notes, her posture relaxing as she continues to kneel before me. Absentmindedly, she lifts her hand and strokes back a strand of my wayward hair. “It is a horrible habit, Emery Jones. You should fix it.”
I take a small sip of the herbal tea. “Do you not apologize when you do something wrong?” My gaze briefly floats to the door which leads to the upper levels of the house. “Maybe… Maybe you should. Maybe then Simone won’t be so angry.”
Toni chuckles. It’s a sound that’s quiet and weak, not rooted in humor but in something darker. Something I can use.
“Simone is always angry,” Toni admits. “It is who she is. An apology will not change that.”
“That sounds…exhausting,” I whisper. “To love someone like that.”
Toni’s jaw twitches. “Sometimes we do not get to decide who we love, Emery Jones. It is beyond our control.”
“How…” I approach with caution. “How did you meet?”
A flash of pain dances across her sharp features, and I fear I may have crossed a line. But she doesn’t stand up. She doesn’t pull away. She simply stares at me. Almost deciding whether or not to trust me with her story.
She’d be a fool to trust me. Her hostage. Someone who’d do just about anything to ensure their survival. But in this moment, she’s not looking at me like I’m a tool, a means to an end. No. She’s looking at me like a confidant. Someone who’d listen. Someone who’d care.
Such a fool.
“We met a year ago in grief counseling,” she says, gaze distant. “It was a couple of weeks after my sister had passedaway. I needed… I needed someone to talk to. Someone who would understand the pain of losing a loved one. I found this group online. And then I met Simone.” Her eyes meet mine, and there’s an unsettling vulnerability glowing in her irises. “Simone understood me better than anyone. Her brother… He was also a Diazenix victim.”
I swallow. A trauma bond. That’s what they’ve established. That’s their relationship. Hard to sever. Nearly impossible to replace. Trauma is the only emotion that’s nearly as strong as love.
What steep competition.
Hesitantly, I reach out and place my hand over hers. “I’m glad you found someone to lean on,” I whisper. “I’m glad you didn’t have to go through that pain alone.” For this to work, I need to offer something in return. Something honest. Something equally raw. “I’ve never lost someone before, but I…” It’s harder than it seems. “I know how it feels to be empty inside.” I pause, closing my eyes. “Like there’s no point in living. I know that feeling. That hollow ache that never stops hurting. I know it too.”
