Chapter 10
TEN
Daniel
The brass lamp was heavy. I could tell by the way the muscles in her forearm were corded, trembling under the strain of holding it aloft. The shade rattled against the bulb, tink, tink, tink, a metronome counting down the seconds before she swung.
In her grip, it wasn't a piece of home decor. It was a blunt instrument. Her eyes had gone wild, dilated, stripped of everything but the primal need to survive, and I knew she would use it. She would crack Anders’ skull open and feel justified, because in her mind, she was trapping a predator in a corner.
"I will hurt you," she hissed.
Anders shifted his weight, his Italian leather shoes squeaking on the hardwood.
I saw the tension coil in his shoulders, the instinct to lunge, to disarm, to control the asset before she damaged herself or the property.
I saw Simon pressing himself into the window frame, his face a mask of horrified paralysis, his hands twitching uselessly at his sides.
They were making it worse with their standing and looming. To her, we were a wall of Alpha dominance that had broken down her door and defiled her sanctuary. Maybe she even thought we had defiled her. Maybe just the idea of being touched by us was repulsive to her, something which horrified me.
Then I know that I couldn't be a wall. Not anymore.
I didn't think about it, just let gravity take me, and sank to the floor.
The movement was slow, deliberate, telegraphing every inch of the descent so she wouldn't flinch.
My knees hit the plush area rug with a heavy, muffled thud.
I folded my large frame down, hunching my broad shoulders, tucking my chin.
I made myself small. I surrendered the height advantage that nature had given me, the size that usually made people step out of my way on the sidewalk.
Effectively, I placed my throat within striking distance of the lamp.
The rattling sound of the shade stopped.
Tessa froze. The weapon didn't lower, but her aim wavered.
Her chest was heaving, the oversized t-shirt she wore rising and falling in jagged, terrified gasps.
The scent of her distress, sour blackberries, brine, and old paper, was so thick in the room it coated the back of my throat like emotional smoke.
"What are you doing?" she whispered, the words trembling. "Get up. Don't… don't do that."
"I’m not getting up, Tessa," I said.
I pitched my voice carefully. Not using the volume I used when arguing with sound engineers, nor the forceful projection I used for dramatic narration.
I dropped into the bottom of my register, the sub-bass rumble that vibrated through sternums and floorboards.
It was the voice that had paid for my apartment, my car, and my solitude.
It was the voice that the internet called "The Anchor. "
"You have the high ground," I said, keeping my hands open on my thighs, palms up. Empty. Harmless. "You have the weapon. You are in charge."
"You're lying," she spat, though her eyes darted to Anders, who was staring down at me with a mixture of shock and dawning realization. "You're trying to trick me. I know it. You… you broke in."
"We did," I agreed. I kept the rhythm slow, hypnotic. "We smashed your lock, invaded your space, and put our hands on you when you couldn't say no. You are absolutely right to want to hit us, Tessa. We’re the villains here."
Anders made a noise in his throat, a protest dying before it could be born. I shot him a look. A sharp, warning glare that silenced him instantly. Let me work.
I turned my hazel eyes back to her, but I didn't stare, instead I offered soft, pathetic eye contact. The kind a dog gives you when it knows it chewed the sofa and wasn’t allowed to.
"But I'm not apologizing for the door," I said softly. "Wood can be fixed. Locks can be replaced. And I'm not apologizing for stopping your heart from exploding last night, because the alternative was watching you die, and I wasn't going to let that happen."
Tessa’s grip on the lamp tightened, her knuckles white. "Then what? What do you want from me?"
"I want to apologize for the choir," I said.
The lamp dipped. Just an inch. Confusion rippled across her face, warring with the panic.
"The choir?" she echoed.
"I was in the middle of the back row," I said, letting the memory bleed into my voice, weighing it with years of leaden regret.
"I was the tall kid who always looked at his shoes because he was terrified someone would notice he hadn't grown into his feet yet.
I had a solo in the processional. I had a microphone on a stand right next to me. "
I watched the recognition flicker in her eyes. She remembered. She remembered the geography of her own execution.
"I saw you shake," I continued, keeping my voice steady, a warm blanket of sound wrapping around her shivering form.
"I saw the way you gripped that podium, the way the security guards started to move from the wings, looking like they were coming to take out the trash.
I knew what was happening. I smelled it. "
Tessa flinched, a small, wounded sound escaping her throat.
"I could have knocked my mic stand over," I said. "I could have started singing early. I could have faked an injury or like I was going to throw up. I could have done anything to draw the eyes away from you. To give you five seconds of cover to get off that stage with your dignity."
I took a breath, inhaling the scent of spiced chai that radiated from my own skin, the scent of safety that had been a lie for a decade.
"But I didn't," I confessed. "I stood there and let the silence hang in the air so everyone could hear you crying.
I let them laugh at you because I was so scared that if I moved, they might look at me instead.
I was a coward, Tessa. A big, useless coward who watched a girl drown three feet away from him. "
A tear slipped from her eye, tracking through the dust on her cheek. The lamp lowered another few inches. It wasn't a weapon anymore; it was just a heavy object she was too tired to hold.
"I have hated that boy for years," I told her, putting my hand over my heart. "And last night… when we realized it was you… when I felt you shaking under my hands just like you shook on that stage… I swore I wasn't going to be him again."
Silence stretched in the room, heavy and grey. The storm outside had turned into a steady, weeping drizzle; the violence gone, leaving only the mess behind.
"You… you touched me," she whispered. The anger was draining out, replaced by a hollow, crushing shame that was harder to witness. "You all saw me. Like an animal. Grinding on the floor."
"We saw a woman in a medical crisis," I corrected gently. "We saw a fever. Biology isn't a moral failing, Tessa. It’s just mechanics. You didn't do anything wrong. You survived."
"But you know," she rasped. "You know T.L. Rose is just… her. Graduation Girl."
"We know," I acknowledged. "And we aren't going to tell a soul."
"Why should I believe you?" Her voice cracked. "Anders is a businessman. He sells things. Simon is… Simon draws everything. And you… you're a voice people pay for."
"Because we’re stuck," I said, shifting the topic to the immediate logistics.
Grounding her in the present. "The bridge is out, Tessa.
The storm took the suspension cables. We checked the perimeter this morning while you were sleeping.
We can't leave. And neither can you. Not until the county sends a crew, and with the roads washed out, that could be two days. "
Her head snapped toward the window, her eyes widening. "Trapped?"
"Yes," I said. "But we are not your jailers."
I slowly, carefully shifted my weight, wincing as my knee popped, but I didn't stand up. I stayed rooted to the floor. That was what she needed; anyone with eyes could see that now.
"Here is how this works," I said, using the tone I used when narrating the rules of a fantasy magic system: absolute, immutable laws. "This bedroom is yours. It is a fortress. We do not cross the threshold. We stay in the living room. You have a lock on this door."
I nodded toward the heavy brass bolt on the inside of her bedroom door.
"You lock us out," I said. "We’ll sleep on the floor and eat the protein bars in the pantry while we will wait for the bridge crew. If you need anything, water, food, pills, you text us, or you shout, or you throw a shoe at the door. We leave it on the mat and we walk away."
She looked at the door, then back at me. Calculating. She was looking for the trap.
"And," I added, my voice hardening slightly, adding a layer of steel beneath the velvet. "If Anders tries to talk about the contract, you have my permission to hit him with that lamp. I’ll hold him down for you."
From the corner of my eye, I saw Anders bristle, straightening his spine, but he kept his mouth shut. He knew a peace offering when he heard one.
Tessa stared at me. Her arm was trembling violently now. The adrenaline was crashing, leaving her weak.
"You won't touch me?" she whispered. "Promise?"
This was it. The pivot point.
I looked at her, really looked at her.
She was a mess of tangled hair and oversized fabric, smelling of trauma and sea salt. But beneath that, I saw the fire. I saw the girl who had built an empire from the ashes of her humiliation. I saw the woman who had writhed under my hands last night with a hunger that had nearly undone me.
I remembered the feel of her hips grinding against my forearm. I remembered the desperation in her voice when she begged us to fill the empty ache.
I couldn't promise indifference. I wasn't a monk, and after last night, none of us were innocent. We had crossed a line that couldn't be uncrossed. We had tasted the air around her when she shattered, and that scent was currently wired into my hindbrain like a drug.
To promise her we wouldn't want her would be a lie. And I was done lying to her.