Page 48 of Love You To Pieces

But that’s a stupid thought, and a panicked one. If I’m going to do this, I need to do it now.

My silent steps take me quickly across the floor, onto a heavy, soft rug into which my toes sink. It helps me stay silent, and more than anything I pray Fox doesn’t somehow sense my presence and wake up.

I need him asleep for this part.

Kill him, a part of me whispers. Take out one of your problems right now.

I could. It would be so easy to take the steak knife and drag it across his throat, pushing down until⁠—

My stomach curls at the thought, sending nausea shooting up my throat. I’m not a killer. Not…not like that. There’s a difference between driving a chainsaw through the chest of a man actively trying to end my life, and another thing entirely to kill someone while they’re sleeping.

I’m just going to threaten him. I need his keys, and then I need to lock him and Deacon somewhere that they can’t come to kill me later.

Carefully and as quietly as humanly possible, I Hilll onto the bed, trying hard not to let it dip too much under my weight. With slow, slightly awkward movements, I finally end up straddling his hips, though it’s not quite where I intended to be.

Still, I tell myself, this is the best place to be when he wakes up. I’m here, looming over him, and when I place the knife delicately to his throat, I tell myself not to press down at all.

I don’t want to actually hurt him.

The realization hits me, and I hate how it nearly makes me withdraw from my mission. But…it’s true. I don’t want to hurt Fox. Not after everything that’s happened.

Hell, I don’t even want to hurt Deacon.

Much.

“Wake up,” I breathe, my voice shaking. But Fox doesn’t move, and I try again, only to have my words catch in my throat as my knife trembles against his. “Wake up⁠—”

“If you aren’t careful, pretty girl”—he doesn’t open his eyes, he just lets out a sigh that might be disapproval—“you’re going to cut me. And it’d be a shame to die before I can find out what I’ve done to upset you so much you want to slit my throat.”

“I don’t want—” But I swallow the words back. He doesn’t need to know how conflicted I am over this. “I want your keys. For the front door and your truck. A-and I want to know where Deacon is. I won’t kill you if you don’t give me a reason to.”

When he finally opens his eyes, they’re dark chocolate, almost black in the dim light of the moon outside. A breeze picks up, fanning the lacy, sheer curtains toward the bed like reaching fingers, but I only tighten my hold on the knife and refuse to back down. The way he looks at me is plaintive, almost curious. He doesn’t seem mad, really.

And he sure as shit isn’t afraid.

Whatever I expected from him, this isn’t it.

“You want to leave.” It isn’t a question, and it better not be.

“Of course I want to leave!” I snap anyway, my voice rising an octave or ten. “I want to go home!”

Something softens in his eyes and he looks down, his eyes landing somewhere between my lips and my throat. “Sadie-Rae,” he sighs at last. “What are you even going home to, hmm?”

“What?” The question makes absolutely no sense, and I feel my brows knit in confusion. “What does that mean? I want to go home to Nashville, to my apartment, to⁠—”

“No one has called your phone.” His words aren’t truly unkind. In fact, they fall flat between us, full of reluctant honesty. “Not one person has called, texted, or left a message.”

The silence filling the space between us has me dropping my eyes when I find I can’t hold his gaze anymore, and my discomfort only grows. I’m not surprised. How can I be? My only friends are dead, and my parents haven’t spoken to me outside of my birthday and Christmas in three years, after I refused to follow their plan for me.

After I disappointed them.

My stomach twists, hot and painful, and I feel nausea in the back of my throat, threatening to make me sick. My grip on the knife loosens a little, but Fox doesn’t take advantage of it while I try to get a hold of myself.

“So what?” I whisper finally, when I’m sure I can speak without crying. “Do you want a medal for going through my phone, Fox?” I don’t mean to throw the words at him, but my fear and resignation have me lashing out.

No one has called my phone.

For some reason, I expected something. Maybe not my mom, but my dad, yes. While he doesn’t text me back, I still text him weekly.