Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Walking into the bathroom, Sunday stared at the tub. She reached in, turned on the water, and stood back up, watching the basin slowly fill. The steady hum of rushing water filled the small space, but her mind was louder, churning with thoughts she couldn’t stop.
Alone in the room, her heart began to race. Her breaths came quicker, shallower. A cold sweat beaded at her temples. When her knees gave a warning tremble, she grabbed the toilet seat and sank down onto it.
Tears spilled down her cheeks, silent and steady, dripping from her chin to her lap. Tomorrow was the end of the road. Texas would drop her off in Montreal. And from what he'd said earlier… Monday wouldn’t be there.
Her hands trembled as a scream clawed its way up her throat. She shoved a fist into her mouth, biting down hard to keep it inside. The pressure, the panic, it all threatened to spill over.
Sliding to the floor, she curled in on herself. Cold tile against her skin. The thunder of her heartbeat in her ears.
She didn’t know if she could do it. Didn’t know if she could be alone. What if something happened? Who would she call? Who would come?
No one. Not this time. No one was coming to save her again.
A single sob broke free. Then another. And another—until Sunday’s head dropped against the edge of the tub, her whole body shaking uncontrollably.
One trembling hand slipped into the rising water. The warmth wrapped around her fingers like a promise—soft, quiet, inviting.
Through blurred vision, she blinked up at the faucet and reached over, twisting the handle until the flow stopped. Silence pressed in, heavy and thick.
Forcing herself upright, she shoved to her feet. Her movements were slow, deliberate. She undressed in silence, folding each piece of clothing with care as if holding onto some last thread of control.
She placed the neat pile on the floor. Then she closed the door and stepped into the tub.
Lowering herself into the water, Sunday gripped the cold porcelain edges of the tub. Her fingers curled tight, knuckles white against the stark white rim.
The warmth enveloped her, but it couldn’t reach the chill rooted deep in her bones. With her decision made, she leaned back slowly. Her breath hitched, then slipped beneath the surface.
Texas walked into the restaurant, still turning over the conversation he’d had with Sunday. Something about her unsettled him.
She’d been too calm. Her voice had been flat, her words short and mechanical—complacent, even. Like she’d already made up her mind.
He’d seen women in bad situations handle things in all kinds of ways. Some stayed strong until they were safely relocated—then crumbled. Others struggled through every mile, every moment.
But Sunday was different. And that difference gnawed at him. He couldn’t get a read on her.
Eros waved from a back booth as Texas crossed the room, but something tugged at the back of his mind. A quiet, persistent unease.
“Don’t forget your key,” she’d said. “Just in case I fall asleep.” It hadn’t registered at the time, but now… it didn’t sit right.
Sunday hadn’t been able to sleep alone. Not once. Not without him nearby. The silence terrified her. Sleep never came easy.
He slowed, turning toward the window. Outside the parking lot shimmered beneath the early evening haze. Still, still, still. “I might not be able to get to the door.” Her words echoed again, sharp this time, cutting through the fog in his brain.
His stomach dropped. Something was wrong. Texas took off. He shoved through the restaurant door and bolted across the parking lot, the air burning in his lungs.
She wouldn’t, he told himself. She wouldn’t.
His hands shook as he fumbled with the room key. It went in backward, then upside down. He cursed under his breath, heart pounding, finally forcing it into the lock.
The door swung open into silence. The kind of silence that screamed. He rushed across the room but skidded to a halt when he saw the bathroom door closed. His chest tightened.
No.
He didn’t knock. Didn’t call her name. Just threw the door open. And there she was.
Sunday submerged in the water, her eyes closed. One hand dangled over the edge of the tub. The other rested motionless on her stomach.
For a second—just one—his brain refused to register what he was seeing. Then instinct kicked in. He moved. Rushing forward he reached into the water, grabbed her under the arms and hauled her out. Texas grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her upright.
Sunday flailed, sputtering as she fought for air. Water splashed over the sides of the tub, soaking the floor as she choked and coughed violently against him.
Relief hit him like a punch to the gut—she was alive.
He scooped her into his arms, holding her tight as he backed out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. Dropping to his knees beside the bed, he laid her down gently.
Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow bursts. Water dripped from her hair, soaking into the blanket beneath her.
Texas pushed the wet strands from her face with a shaking hand and dropped his forehead to her chest, struggling to breathe himself. The adrenaline, the fear—it all caught up to him in a single, crushing moment.
Then Sunday coughed again, harsher this time.
Snapping back into motion, he helped her sit up, bracing her with one arm as he leaned her forward. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.
He patted her back firmly, trying to help her lungs clear whatever was left. She was breathing. Coughing. Alive.
When she finally drew a deep, steady breath, Texas shifted her gently, moving her so he could slide in beside her.
He reached across, pulled the blanket from the far side of the bed, and tucked it around her shaking body.
Her skin was still cold. Her lips pale. But she was breathing. Texas leaned over her, his voice low, rough, “What were you thinking?”
Not a shout. Not an accusation. Just a broken question hanging in the air between them cracked open with fear, anger, and something dangerously close to heartbreak.
Sunday couldn’t look at him. She didn’t want to. She wanted to disappear into herself, curl into a ball beneath the covers and vanish.
His presence beside her was too much—too close—too heavy with questions she didn’t have the strength to answer.
She stared at the wall, eyes unfocused, the weight of the blanket doing nothing to stop the shiver in her bones.
“I didn’t mean to,” she whispered, barely audible.
The words felt foreign in her mouth. Distant. Detached.
“I don’t even remember getting in. I… I turned the water on and then…”
She blinked, trying to piece the memory together.
“It’s all just… a blur.”
“Doll, it’s gonna get better. I promise you. It will get better,” Texas’s voice was soft but steady, like a lifeline thrown across the darkness.
She shook her head, voice rough and brittle from coughing. Like someone else was speaking through her.
“It won’t,” her words came slow, weighted with defeat. “Tomorrow, you’ll drop me off in Montreal... and I’ll be alone.”
A pause, sharp and raw.
“Monday won’t be there. And you won’t be there.”
When Monday came home, she’d want Sunday out of her house faster than rabbits fuck. It wasn’t Sunday’s fault she was this way. They’d been raised to rely on themselves—no one else—for everything.
Sunday could still remember fending for herself as a toddler. No one had helped her. No one had helped Monday either.
When Monday turned seventeen, she left, and never looked back. Not even once for Sunday. She could still hear Monday’s voice, sharp and final, as she packed the few things she owned. “I’m tired of being here. You’re on your own, kid.”
On her own. Hell, she’d always been on her own, Sunday thought. They hadn’t truly reconnected until years later, and even then, they were little more than acquaintances at best.
You could love someone and still not want them around. Sunday had learned that the hard way. But she was the exception in her family. She felt things. Cared about others. Wanted a family—her family. And she hadn’t found one yet.
Maybe that was why she wanted to drift away so badly. Deep down, where it counted, Sunday didn’t believe she’d ever truly belong anywhere.
She felt Texas drying her off with a towel but stared straight ahead, fixated on the ugly wallpaper peeling from the wall.
She heard him talking, but the words didn’t register—just noise floating around her like distant static. She was trapped in her own head, too far away to care.
Sunday felt clothes being pulled over her skin and went through the motions, barely present. Then a firm hand turned her head. She looked at Texas. His lips moved, but no sound reached her ears.
Texas dried her off and slipped one of his long-sleeved t-shirts over her shoulders.
He searched her bag but couldn’t find any panties. A knot tightened in his chest. He felt like a damn fool for not taking her to get what she needed sooner. But no, he’d been too caught up plotting how to make her ex pay.
Sunday sat beside him, eyes vacant, staring off like a ghost. She wasn’t responding to anything he said—no flicker of life, no sign she was really there.
Grabbing her shoulder, Texas shook her gently, just enough to get a reaction. A single blink. But it was enough. She was focusing on him. His voice dropped low, fierce but trembling, “You can’t ever do that to me, Doll.”
Her eyes blinked again, slower this time. Texas shook her harder. “Sunday!” his voice cracked with desperation.
Then the tears came like the pouring rain outside—relentless and fierce.
She collapsed against him, sobbing uncontrollably. Her hands clenched and twisted the fabric of his shirt as her body shook with all the unspent pain she’d been holding in.
Texas held her tight, rocking her gently as she fell apart in his arms. He should’ve known this was coming. All of it.
Hell, just four days ago, Sunday had clawed her way up a muddy embankment—drugged, beaten, and, from what he’d been told, raped over months. No one could keep going without breaking.
“I got you, Doll. Cry all you want,” he whispered, his voice steady but breaking beneath the weight of it all.