Chapter Two
The cold kiss of antiseptic stings as Wyatt presses a cotton ball to my temple. I watch him from a distance that’s almost surreal, like watching a stranger handle me with reverent care. I don’t recognise the empty expression on his face, devoid of anger or envy. In the very least, I’d expected waking to him screaming that I’ve wrecked Huxley’s car. I’m glad he didn’t, as my fragile head is on the verge of splitting in two if there happens to be any sudden noise.
He notices me staring but says nothing, continuing to apply gentle pressure to my head. We’re sitting on the damp earth, the SUV nearby, its white glossy exterior camouflaged by mud and leaves. A heavy head lies on my lap, the heated breath of Baxter coating my thighs rhythmically. I don’t have the energy to stroke him. I'm too focused on remaining upright. My cheek throbs where I feel glass has scraped my skin. My muscles are sluggish from exhaustion, no doubt the drug Wyatt used on me is still fighting to leave my system.
“I hate how easily I forgave you,” I croak without any venom. My irritation over that fact has nothing to do with Wyatt and everything to do with myself. It doesn’t matter that he was the secret writer of the letters I held dear. All I knew of Wyatt was that he spent years hating me and tormenting me. All the times he’s allowed me to feel like I wasn’t enough, like I didn’t belong. And out of pure desperation, I was so willing to forgive everything for a taste of him. To know what it feels like to be held by him, to have his lips devour mine. “I hate that you make me so weak.”
“That makes two of us,” he replies softly, avoiding my gaze still. My heart thuds painfully. He could have lied and told me that I dreamt the whole thing. That Meg is safe, surrounded by her friends. But there’s no escaping this. Wyatt’s fingers lift to hold my chin, holding me in place as he works. “Stop squirming.”
I don’t know why I do just that, failing limp beneath his hold. I want to be plotting my next move, planning to dash into the shadows and disappear, but my mind can’t grasp a thought before the next slips into its place. There’s a throbbing pain in my neck which has been there since I woke in Hux’s car, and has only intensified with the crash. The more my awareness comes back, the quicker my body sinks into shock, causing my legs to tremble and back to seize tightly.
I shudder, briefly closing my eyes. The image of the boys is there to greet me, the only thing I can hold onto. Axel’s hazel eyes, Garrett’s boyish smile, Huxley’s crossed arms and Dax’s quiet confidence. I lean into them, pretending I’m huddled in their arms instead of nestled deep in a thicket of trees under a sky that’s teetering between twilight and dawn.
“You’re lucky I found this,” Wyatt says. I jolt back to reality and realize I was leaning against his shoulder, hindering his reach to my head. He waves at the red cross-emblazoned first aid kit on the ground like some saving grace. He’s already covered a cut on his bicep with a slapdash bandage, and the redness around his neck only faintly shows the marks my zip tie left.
“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you,” I retort, voice rasping as the words slip past my swollen throat. Wyatt’s green eyes flash in the dim light.
“You think I wanted to crash? Or that I would choose this?” His voice is low, controlled, but there’s something jagged beneath it, barely restrained. “You’re not the only one with regrets here, Avery.”
And there it is. The mask he pulls on whenever he’s cornered. He lifts another cotton ball, disinfectant staining it bright red, and moves closer. His touch is rougher than before, as if he’s punishing me away with every swab. I jerk my head back, but his hand on my jaw tightens, refusing to let me turn away .
“Sit still,” he grits out. “Unless you’d rather I leave you bleeding in the dirt?”
“Don’t pretend you care about me.”
“That’s all I’ve ever done!” he blares, and I wince, a throb pulsing through my skull. I waver, almost falling backwards if it weren’t for Wyatt’s quick grip on my arms. Catching himself, he exhales harshly and releases his hold, testing my balance to remain sitting upright. “You read those letters. You know exactly how I feel.”
“Lies,” I bite out, glaring at him with every ounce of defiance I have left. “You wrote those to toy with me, just another way to torture me when you weren’t around. You knew when I finally found out, I’d be utterly crushed. Congratulations, you’ve succeeded.” Wyatt lets out a mirthless laugh, a single, harsh sound.
“Sure. Whatever you say, Angel.”
I clamp my mouth shut, watching his hands with narrowed eyes. I won’t let him goad me, and no way in hell will I let him know how much I hate that pet name. Wyatt returns to my temple, carefully placing tape stitches on what feels like a gigantic bump. I look anywhere he isn’t. Every tree is nearly gnarled with age, their roots spilling up from the ground like tangled fingers. The tarmac road slices through the treeline, harsh in comparison to the nature that surrounds it.
The crash replayed over and over again in my mind. The moment I lunged, the way his breath hitched when he realized I had him. And now we’re stuck in this miserable dance of dependency, each of us too hurt to leave, both too furious to let go.
“The cut isn’t too deep,” Wyatt says suddenly, his thumb grazing the bruise on my head, “but I don’t like the idea of you going to sleep anytime soon. For some reason, Hux’s trunk was packed with camping gear. I’ll set up a tent and we can rest until you’re ready to start walking.”
My gaze briefly drifts back to the SUV, also snagging on Huxley’s need to hoard camping supplies. Then the memory of the safe house comes rushing back, and I realize he was preparing for the worst. An attack from Fredrick that would cause us to go off grid. Ironically, that’s exactly what’s happened, but not in the way any of the Souls could have anticipated.
I rip my chin free of Wyatt’s hold, every inch of me screaming not to let him see any weakness. “I’m not going to be stuck here with you. I need to get back home. I need to help Meg.”
Wyatt’s expression shifts, and for a split second, I think I see something break beneath the cold detachment. He recoils, pressing his lips into a thin line, and he begins to pack up the first aid kit. The cold bites harder as his warmth pulls away, leaving only the hollow echo of our shared breath in the stillness. When he finally breaks the silence, his tone is almost resigned.
“Stay with Baxter. I’ll look for level ground.”
I grit my teeth, every part of me wanting to argue, to run, but fatigue pulls at my limbs, settling into my bones with a relentless ache. The fight drains from me, leaving only raw tension and the dawning reality of our situation. Getting one up on Wyatt seemed like all that mattered in the car, but maybe I should have waited until we were near some sort of civilization.
Curling my arms around Baxter, I half drag us both towards a tree trunk and slump against it. The large hound shifts his way up my body until his warmth seeps into my front, his head on my shoulder. His breathing is easy to mimic, deep, and soothing. I stroke him absentmindedly, my eyes drifting closed.
“Hey!” Wyatt throws a packaged brioche at me. “Eat, and no sleeping!”
Despite Wyatt’s orders, I rouse to the feeling of a wet tongue on my uninjured cheek. I come around much slower than usual, lazily blinking upwards to a green tarp covering. Below me, the ground is cushioned by what I imagine are sleeping bags layered on top of one another, a blanket over my front. I shake my head, grumbling at Baxter. The hound retreats, jumping over my body to get to Wyatt instead. I flinch, the low tremor of a headache slicing through me, much to Wyatt’s amusement.
“Told you not to go to sleep.” His face is now being attacked with long strokes of Baxter’s tongue, but he’s not brushing them away. He welcomes them, a soft smile on his mouth as he ruffs up the fur around the dog’s neck. I lie there, just watching. Am I still asleep? Have I woken up in a different reality, where Wyatt is just a joy-filled guy with a soft spot for mutts? He’s certainly never shown the same affiliation for me.
Giggling bubbles from my lips. As if I want Wyatt fawning all over me, calling me a good girl, and fluffing up my hair. The thought gets more ridiculous, and I convince myself I am indeed still asleep. Or dead, possibly dead.
“What’s so funny?” Wyatt cuts through my laughter. I don’t respond, gently pushing myself up onto my elbows.
A small package lands on my chest with a soft thud, that same brioche bouncing off my blanket before resting on the ground. I stare at it, fingers itching to tear it open even as resentment builds. Wyatt sits in the corner, his green gaze trained as if daring me to ignore him. I want to tell him I don’t need his help and that I’d rather starve than accept anything from him. But my stomach betrays me, twisting with the pangs of hunger that have been gnawing at me since we crashed.
Reluctantly, I reach for the brioche, peeling back the wrapper with shaky fingers. It’s absurdly sweet, the taste settling like syrup on my tongue, and I try not to imagine him smirking at my compliance. Wyatt watches in silence, releasing his hold on Baxter so that the pup can settle beside him. Large brown eyes track the brioche, a low whine escaping him. Breaking it in half, I feed him whilst altogether ignoring the fact that Wyatt might be hungry too. He made his terrible choices; he can fend for himself.
“Feel better?” Wyatt asks after a beat, his voice a shade gentler.
“Do you want me to thank you or something?” I snap, surprised at the bitterness that laces my tone. He doesn’t deserve it, at least not right now, but I can’t help it. The anger that simmers beneath the surface refuses to die down, lingering in my veins like a toxic burn. Although who I’m mad at is blurry, and I fear the answer might be myself.
Wyatt only sighs, cracking his neck side to side. “No, Avery. I don’t want your thanks.” His eyes, normally sharp and calculating, appear reserved as he looks at me, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “I’ve spent years harboring your hatred for me. I’m not going to shy away from it now.”
“Such a martyr,” I huff and clench my jaw tight. I can’t speak for harboring hatred because I’m a sap for a lost cause, but he’s done a fantastic job at fucking with my head. I don’t know what I feel for him anymore. I don’t know what I want from him, except for the space to pull myself together. An idea begins to take shape in my mind. The same one I started in the car and executed poorly. I need to take back control.
After a few minutes of silence, I shift, pulling myself fully into a half-seated position. Wyatt’s eyes track me, wary but calm. “What now?” he mutters, his tone tired. I keep my voice low and casual, forcing myself not to look at him.
“I need to pee,” I say simply.
“Seems like Huxley thought of that too.” Following Wyatt’s gaze, I spot a stack of small boxes beside some heavy-duty torches, each one labeled as a ‘personal toilet.’ My nose scrunches up, then I scoff out a ridiculous laugh when I realize Wyatt is serious.
“I hardly think we’re on peeing in front of each other terms.” I watch Wyatt’s nostrils flare, dreading what his response might be. Something along the lines of seeing me in many other compromising positions before. The heat hits my cheeks, twinging slightly, but thankfully Wyatt doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he shrugs, nodding toward the dense line of trees just outside the tent.
“Fine. But don’t take too long. It’ll be dark soon,” he says. I stutter to a halt.
“Dark?! How long was I out?”
“All day,” Wyatt huffs as if I’m a huge inconvenience to him. “Just think, you could have been in a nice warm bed by now if you’d let me take you where we were heading.” I don’t ask where exactly that is, refusing to let Wyatt bait me.
Keeping my expression blank, I push myself to my feet, carefully testing my balance through the tent, which is easily large enough to sleep six. I don’t miss the way Wyatt’s eyes track my every move, cautious as ever. Trust will never be something that comes easy with us, and for good reason.
Stepping outside, the cold grips me in its firm hold, stealing a puff of visible air from my mouth. I’m struck by the winter air colliding with a layer of sweat coating my body, thanks to being swaddled in a blanket, sweatpants, and a very familiar orange hoodie. Beyond the cold, my muscles scream in protest, every bruise and scrape from the crash making their presence known. I stumble slightly, exaggerating the limp. Upon glancing back, I note how Wyatt’s gaze softens just a fraction before he turns his attention back to Baxter.
My steps start slow. As I reach the tree line, I glance back, ensuring he’s preoccupied, before slipping into the cover of the forest. I make sure I’m out of sight before attending to my needs, dignity flying away on the wings of a bird bursting through the branches. I flinch at the sudden sound, righting my clothing and taking a step back towards the tent. Then I pause. It’s quiet out here, a frozen moon-coated landscape in the middle of nowhere.
I have no idea where I am, but there’s a road cutting through the forest nearby. Roads lead to towns; towns have people. Wyatt intends to walk us towards civilization, no doubt refusing to let me out of his sight for a single second. I’ll be his pet without a leash, firmly under his control for as long as I’m in his overbearing presence.
The question is, how much do I trust him? Wyatt has vowed to keep me safe, in his own demented possessive way, but I don’t care about staying safe. I care about saving Meg from an evil she doesn’t understand. I know Fredrick. I know his ways. His cues. I’ve spent the last ten years failing to forget them. I survived him once, and I can do it again.
My eyes track the direction the bird flew. Endless tree trunks, a forest floor littered with dead leaves. I don’t think. I don’t second guess myself. I just bolt.