Chapter 41
Chapter forty-one
Slash
Carrson
When things got really bad with my father, I’d disappear.
Not physically.
Mentally.
Dissociate.
That’s the official word for it. I looked it up once, late at night, sitting on the floor of my room, trying to figure out if it happened to everyone or just me.
It doesn’t. It’s rare.
Triggered by extreme trauma.
That must be what’s happening now. I’ve got that same feeling. Like I’ve stepped a few feet outside my body and left it behind. Like I’m floating, watching from above. Untouched by the reality of what’s happening below.
I’m aware of movement, of my hand wrapped around Becky’s arm as I drag her outside after dinner, but it doesn’t feel like mine.
Given her cry of pain, I must be holding her too hard but that knowledge is distant, happening to someone else.
I’m too distracted to pay much attention to it, how her feet drag through the tall grass behind Ashford House as I pull her around the side of the building.
The moon is low and pale overhead, the noise from the dining hall already fading behind us. Everything feels distant. Muted. Like it’s happening underwater.
Because I’m not here. Not really.
I’m somewhere else, listening to the noise, all the terrible words, inside my head. It’s my voice, but younger, and it’s twisted, intertwined with his.
It doesn’t stop. It never stops.
Stupid. I’m so fucking stupid.
To believe someone might care about me.
That someone might want me.
Love me.
It’s like my father said.
I’m unlovable. Not worth the effort.
Becky’s talking. Saying my name along with words like please and explain. They fall on deaf ears.
What’s there to explain? Jackson already showed it.
All those articles. The photos. The truth.
I stop so abruptly she stumbles past, the pull on her wrist snaps her back to me.
“You set me up,” I say, though I don’t remember deciding to speak.
“I didn’t—I mean—I did,” she stammers, “but it wasn’t to hurt you—"
“Too late for that,” I smile but it’s wrong. A slash instead of a curve.
Somewhere deep inside I’m screaming. None of that reaches me here.
“It was all a lie,” I say, “Every word. Every touch.”
“No, no, Carrson—” Tears well in her eyes. They overflow, spilling down her cheeks, unchecked. “That’s not true.”
She steps closer. Puts her hand on my chest.
My hands lift, aching to drag her closer. To hold her.
I shove her away instead. A small push, but she staggers backward, her heel catching on a clump of weeds in the grass. Her arms windmill, as she falls and hits the ground hard.
The sound of it, bone against packed earth, cracks through the night.
She folds in on herself, buries her face in her hands. Her narrow shoulders heave.
I should help her up, but I can’t touch her.
I won’t. Never again.
Eyes swollen and lashes damp, Becky peers up at me.
“I don’t understand,” she whispers. “You stood there. You told them I belong.”
“What was I supposed to say?” I drag a hand through my hair and fist it, pulling hard enough to hurt. “Huh? You want me to stand there and admit it? In front of everyone? That Jackson was right?” I clench my jaw so hard it aches. “That you played me. Manipulated me.”
Every accusation I hurl at her lands. I see it in the way she breaks with every hit.
But I keep going, because if I stop, I’ll break too.
“I’m finally getting control of this place,” I say, pacing. “Ashford House. The Order. My legacy. Who I am.” I let out a bitter laugh. “And now this? You expect me to throw that away?”
“This isn’t who you are.” She retorts. “You’re not cruel. Not to me.”
I spin back to her, the distance gone in a step.
“Fuck that. I am cruel. I’m a monster. A killer.” I yell, loud enough that Becky clamps her hands over her ears. “I ruin things.” My voice goes cold. “You won’t be the exception.”
She looks at me tearstained, her eyes hazy, like she doesn’t recognize me.
Makes sense. I don’t recognize myself right now either.
I don’t know who I am. Who she is. What we are.
I fall silent, trying to sort through the chaos in my mind but my thoughts scramble, too many of them, too contradictory.
The only sound is her sobbing, echoing through the trees.
Slowly, I force myself to calm and for the first time since this started, something real slips through the numbness.
Small. But important.
“Did it mean anything?” I whisper, my voice barely more than a rasp.
Becky’s hands drop from her ears slowly, like she’s worried any movement might set me off again. Tears track down her cheeks, but when she speaks, there’s no hesitation.
“It did. It does.” She wipes at her face, smearing the wetness more than clearing it. “It wasn’t supposed to be real. Not at first.” Her eyes lock onto mine, her voice softening. “But it is now.”
Her hand lifts toward me, hovering in the space between us.
I stay just out of reach.
“You matter.” Her hand falls back to her lap. “Carrson, you’re the only thing that feels real to me.”
I almost see it. A version of this where I believe her. Where I pull her up, drag her into me, and tell everyone else to go to hell. But there was a reason I left the bed in my father’s room. With its scars on the bed posts. A lesson.
Don’t trust anyone.
The part of me that wants to open to her slams shut. Like a door locking.
“No,” I say.
It’s not a word. It’s a verdict.
“You just got better at lying.”
Her expression collapses, not at once, in pieces. First the disbelief. Then the hurt. Then deeper. Still, she rallies. Sniffs. Lifts her chin. “I’m not lying,” she insists. “Carrson, look at me, actually look. You know when I lie. You know the difference.”
I do.
That’s the problem.
Because I don’t see it now.
And that scares me more than anything she could’ve said.
“I’m sorry. For all of it,” her voice splinters. “But don’t make this decision for us. You feel this too. You don’t let anyone touch you. But you let me.”
“I felt what you wanted me to feel,” I say. “You’re good at that.”
Pain flashes across her face so fast it’s like I hit her.
“I see how you work,” I continue. “You study people. Find the cracks. The empty spaces. Then you fill them.” I hold her gaze. “That’s what you did with me.”
“That’s not true,” she says, “I fell for you. Love you—”
“You didn’t fall for me. Not the real me,” I have to pause and gather myself because this part hurts. “You got attached to the version you built in your head. The one you needed.”
“No,” she begs, clutching her chest, “Please just—stop—”
“Here’s what’s going to happen. We have one week left,” My voice stays even, stripped of anything that might betray me. “You finish your classes. You pack your things. Then you leave.”
She stares at me, uncomprehending.
“And you don’t come back.”
She shakes her head, like if she refuses hard enough it won’t be real, but the movement is slower now. Worn down.
“And if you do,” I step closer, forcing her to look at up me, “if I see you again,” I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to. “I will erase you.”
She doesn’t react right away. Just stares at me, unfocused.
“Everything,” I say quietly. “Your family. Your name. Any future you think you have. You’ve seen what The Order is. You know exactly what I’m capable of.”
“This isn’t happening,” she says, but her voice is faint. Distant. “This isn’t how this goes. Not for us.”
“Oh, it is.” I reach for her, my hand closing around her elbow, dragging her to her feet. For a single second, just one, my grip falters. My thumb presses into her skin, and I feel her there, real, shaking, warm. Mine. I feel it again, that desperate urge to pull her closer.
I let her go.
“I don’t want to see you.”
“You don’t mean that—”
“I do.”
I hold onto that.
“I don’t want you,” I force out, “I’m done with you.”
She’s already breaking, already halfway gone, but I push further, because if I leave a crack…
“You don’t know how to love,” I say. “You just know how to make people think you do.”
She sways, as if the ground rolls under her. Like an earthquake.
“Tell me something, Becky,” I add. “Do you even know who you are without someone to obsess over?”
The silence that follows is unbearable.
I wait for her to fight me, but after all these months, resisting her, challenging her, letting myself want her.
I’ve finally broken her.
She chokes on a sob, turns, and runs.
The forest takes her immediately.
Dark swallowing darker, branches closing in as she flees between them. The green of her dress vanishes first, lost to the undergrowth, then the pale flash of her skin, then nothing is left at all.
Even her sobs don’t carry. They sink.
Pulled down into the earth until the night smooths over what’s left.
I don’t call her back. I stand there, staring at the place she disappeared, my hands hanging uselessly at my sides, my chest gaping, like something vital just got ripped out of it and I didn’t even try to stop it.
That’s when I know.
I didn’t just lose her.
I made sure she would never come back.