Thea scowls at me but turns to address him. “Thank you for your friendship. You’ll never know how much it meant to me. Please tell Stefan that as well.”
Edmond squeezes her shoulder, and something wire-like coils in my chest. I lock my jaw and stiffen, fighting the urge to avert my gaze. My pulse pounds when she slowly turns and limps toward the steps. Her steps hitch, and her weight shifts all wrong. Hobbling, she keeps her chin up as if that somehow makes her less broken. But her body betrays her—she buckles once, twice?—
“Edmond!” I bark, and he scurries to her side, allowing her to lean on him as he escorts her up the front steps.
It should be me. I should carry her. But it’d only upset her, only make this impossible for me. So, I just stare, taking in how damn small she looks.
She pauses to stare at the front door, then she rips the foreclosure paper from it, balls it up, and tosses it to the porch. Edmond fumbles with her keys to open the door, then before I can blink, she’s shut inside.
In minutes, Edmond has repositioned himself into the seat beside me while I stare at the house. He opens his mouth to tell the driver to go, but I sling a hand over his biceps.
“Wait,” I whisper, still staring at the dilapidated home. My heart beats frantically, loud. Everything squeezes and I can’t get enough air, no matter how calm I try to remain. My skin is clammy, and I’m hot and cold all at once. How can I leave her? How can I let her go?
You love her, I tell myself.You love her enough to risk the entire plan for her, to kill your grandfather, to … endure this life without her.
More questions hammer me, and my throat feels as though it’s closing in. I will myself to focus on what’s best for her.Let her go.
“Sir? Are you sure this is what you want? Are you sure this is what’s best for her, too?”
I don’t know. I’m afraid if I open my mouth a raw sound I can’t take back will exit. So, I shut my mouth, content in the quiet because saying it out loud would make it real. I stay silent and let the ache settle in as though it were a weighted stone in my gut as Edmond leans forward to tap on the glass divider and the car rolls on. Loving her doesn’t need words—it never did.
CHAPTER FORTY
THEA
TWO WEEKS LATER
“You’re circling it,” Dr. Burgas says softly. “Whatever happened … you keep stopping right before you say it.”
I look down at my hands, clasped tightly in my lap. My pinky plays with the fabric of my leggings, while the rest of my fingers dig into my palms. I breathe slowly, but it’s shallow. It’s always the same. Dr. Burgas tells me I’m circling, which is her fancy way of saying I’m not telling her everything, but I can’t. Won’t. I already put someone in jeopardy once by trying to expose EV, and I won’t do it again.
Plus, I’m not sure I could put it all into words. How do I explain that the person who cracked me open doesn’t want me? That he wants me to move on without him.
The office is too warm. It’s stifling, and my skin itches. Dr. Burgas’s diffuser hums on the stubby bookshelf behind her desk, dispersing a thin fog of lavender-scented mist that’s supposed to calm me. Yeah, that doesn’t work. Neither does the therapy.
After a week of not leaving the house, I finally opened the envelope Slade gave me. I’d hoped there was a note, somethingI could cling to or read because I miss his voice. But it was cash. Loads of it for groceries and bills, despite the fact that he bought me my childhood home, which I don’t want, and paid for my last college semester, which I don’t need to attend.
Classes have started, but I haven’t gone.
I guess that’s why I’m here. I need help.
The clock on the wall is round and a pale teak-wood color. It’s barely ticked as the hands shifted over the course of the hour, and I find it utterly annoying.
“I can’t.” My voice cracks, not because I’m depressed. I’m angry. With him.
Dr. Burgas sits across from me. Her pen quit writing twenty minutes ago, and she tries for the third time to coax something from me. Glasses sitting low on her nose, her hair pulled into a slicked-back bun, she looks at me like I’m broken and fragile, which raises the hair on the back of my neck. She can’t know? Right? “But you can,” she says. Leaning forward, she drops her pen in favor of steepling her hands together. “I need to know if I’m going to help you carry this burden, Thea.”
It sounds great in theory. The idea of opening up, telling her I was sold by my father, kidnapped by the very men she probably voted for—assaulted, tortured, and through all that fell in love. I snort out loud.
“What is it?”
Is it weird I don’t want to share? I don’t want to be told that I experienced some Stockholm syndrome like Slade wants to pretend to make it easier. He wasn’t my captor or abuser. He saved me. Gaveallthe girls something to ease their time. My grief, my guilt for the other girls, for Piper, my love for Slade—if I work through that, does that mean it will go away?
I shake my head, my throat too tight to speak. The couch creaks under me when I shift, moving to sit on my hands.
I can’t try to theorize him away—I don’t want to. He’s the only thing in this that’s real.
Dr. Burgas exhales, slow and steady. She’s annoyed, though I’m sure she can’t actually say it out loud. “Then tell me how it feels. Don’t tell me what happened. Tell me where it sits in your body?”
