He leaves, and I’m alone with my thoughts and my churning stomach and the knowledge that Kain broke because of me. He only gave up information when he believed I was suffering.
I pour myself another cup of coffee and head to the living room. Kain has already collapsed back onto the couch, his eyes closed, his breathing steady.
I grab a book from the side table and curl up in the armchair next to him, trying to focus on the words on the page.
But my mind keeps drifting back to what Darius said: that Kain ripped his chains out of the wall. And that eventually, Kain gave in—not for himself, but for me, thinking I was being tortured. Doesn’t that mean something? Doesn’t that mean he really does love me?
I shake my head, forcing the thought away. It doesn’t matter. Love doesn’t erase betrayal. Love doesn’t make the lies okay.
But the thought persists, eating at me as I turn pages without reading them.
He broke his chains when he thought I was in danger. He was dying, yet his instinct was to try to fight to protect me.
Everything he does comes back to me somehow. Even the terrible things.
I’m still thinking about it when my eyes start to drift closed, the book slipping from my fingers to rest on my lap.
I don’t know when I fall asleep, but a loud crash jolts me awake.
I’m on my feet instantly, my book hitting the floor. The light in the living room is dim; I must have been asleep for a few hours, based on the angle of the sunlight through the window.
“Kain?”
I hear a groan from the other side of the couch. I rush around it and find him on the floor, his hands gripping his head.
“What happened?” I drop to my knees beside him. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” His voice is strained, and sweat has soaked through his shirt. When I touch his arm, his skin is fever hot.
“You’re not fine! You’re—”
“My vision went black,” he admits grudgingly. “I was heading to the bathroom and lost my balance.”
“Let me help you—”
“No.” He pushes my hand away, struggling to get his feet under him. “I’m alright. You can…go back to what you were doing.”
“Kain, you can barely stand!”
He finally makes it upright, one hand braced against the wall for support. His jaw is clenched, and I can see the effort it is taking him to stay on his feet.
“I’m just going to the bathroom,” he says through gritted teeth. “Please, Anne. Let me do this myself.”
Every instinct is screaming at me to help him, to support his weight, to do something. But the stubborn set of his shoulders tells me he won’t accept it.
“Fine,” I say reluctantly. “But I’m staying right here until you come back out.”
He doesn’t argue, just makes his slow, unsteady way to the bathroom. The door closes behind him, and I lean against the wall, listening.
The sound of water running. A thump as if he has braced himself against the sink. Heavy breathing.
I count to sixty before the door opens again. He looks marginally better—he has splashed water on his face, at least—but the fever flush is still high on his cheeks.
“See?” He doesn’t quite meet my eyes. “Fine.”
He’s not fine, but I let it go. For now.
“I’m making dinner,” I say instead of arguing. “Soup. You should eat something.”
