Page 82 of Nemesis

“Second, I know you’re not in the mood, but remember how well you did yesterday?” A hand brushes over my spine, eliciting a burst of electricity. “I bet it felt amazing to be outside, feeling the sun and wind on your face.”

I shake my head, unwilling to bend to his words. “Open the window, Vas. It has the same effect.”

He tsks.

I flip over with a huff, catching my first sight of the irritating man today. He’s so put-together. So innately unaffected by all the shit we just weathered. Dressed in a black long-sleeved compression shirt and a pair of dark cargo pants, he also happens to look like every girl’s wet dream made flesh. The grooves of his biceps cut addictive contours into the fabric, illustrating just how jacked he is underneath. Maybe that’s part of his strategy. Dressing slutty enough to entice me to work out with him.

Clever.

“Vas, please,” I beg, changing my approach. “I’m exhausted. At least let me take a nap.”

“You’ve been in bed for twenty-four hours.”

“I know, but,” I sigh, seeking out that slat of wood on the wall I’ve become so dependent on. “I can’t sleep.”

Bending down, he settles on the other side of the bed. When I glance over, his face has melted into something soft and disarming. “Talk to me about it. Why can’t you sleep?”

I consider the question for a long time. Not due to obstinacy—rather, hesitation to revisit the thoughts that I work so hard to avoid. Sometimes, even seeing a certain color is enough to bring them on.

There are so many offending colors in my world.

Grey bathes the walls in shadows every evening. It doesn’t matter if you’re sitting in a cage or lounging on a lavish mattress, because that darkness always works its way in. If I look for too long, I start hearing my own stuttered breaths. Feel the scream building in my throat.

Red is the worst of them all, a silent gush that seems to follow me everywhere I go. The color that dripped down my cheek when the guard marked my shame. The bright hue that bloomed in the middle of those men’s shirts after I pressed the trigger, and the ooze that poured down my face last night when I scrubbed a little too hard and ripped a stitch on my cheek.

Blue is my only touchstone.

Only one particular variation, though. The same one that’s gazing down at me now with a thoughtful expression.

“When I close my eyes, I see too many things,” I start, voice lowering.

And I feel too many things.

I was an angry child. Whether or not the emotion was justified, you’d think I’d have more practice pushing that anger down by now. I have experience with extreme tolerance, and separating my ownership from my body like cream and curd. Why is this time any different?

The scar on my cheek tingles beneath the thought. Is this all because of the physical reminder left behind?

Am I that shallow?

“Tell me,” he says.

I wipe my eyes, feeling the words rise in my chest like a hungry wave. “I see all those bodies in the safehouse, littered across the floor. I see you in that chair.” I don’t have to specify which chair I’m talking about. “Except, you’re not silent or taunting the guards. You’re screaming.”

The bloodiest images always come when I watch the moon drift away, replaced by soft chirps and the abrasive streaks of morning sun. Another day marked by nature’s cycle, but nothing feels any different.

Before I know it, I’m being pulled across the bed into his lap. My legs rest over his thigh in the intimate position. His chest pulses against my back with a ragged breath.

“I see you too,” he whispers, startling me. “I see you in that chair. Coated in blood. Humming that ridiculous song.”

Dance of the Knights.

“It’s an epic song,” I reply with a small smile. He doesn’t match it.

“I hate it. I fucking hate every time it plays in my head, reminding me how much I failed you in there⁠—”

“You did not fail me.” I turn, gripping his chin and tilting his face down to mine. A small crease indents between his brows. “You protected me. You’re still trying to protect me, even though I’m an ungrateful asshole who can’t figure out how to face the world again.”

“I see you trying every day,” he says, bending his forehead to mine. “Trying takes many forms. Even opening up to me was a massive step.”