Chapter Eight
Nick
Christmas morning. I finally have her in my bed.
Not the way I used to imagine it when I was sixteen, still in that house without her, half-feral, sleeping on a thin mattress and staring up at mold-speckled ceiling tiles. Back then, it was all blur and fantasy and raw need. No context, no hope — just wanting. This is…more.
The room is dim, lit only by pale winter light sneaking through the curtains and the soft, blinking glow of the string of Christmas lights I draped around the headboard last night while she slept.
The lights are old and cheap; some bulbs barely glow.
But they paint color on her skin, faint reds and greens and golds, like she’s wrapped in the holiday whether she wants it or not.
She’s on her side facing me, blanket pulled up to her chest and one shoulder bare. Her hair is a mess on the pillow between us, lashes dark against her cheeks. For a moment I just lie here, drinking her in, watching her breathe.
I carried her in sometime after midnight.
She finally sagged against me on the couch, limp and warm and utterly done.
I cut the zip tie binding her wrists and fastened a new one with s little more wiggle room, soft enough that she could rest, tight enough that I knew she couldn’t do anything stupid in the night. Baby steps.
That plastic band is still there now, a pale ring around her wrists where they’re tucked between her chest and the blanket. I hate it. I need it. I exhale slowly, chest tight. She shifts at the sound, a tiny crease forming between her brows. Her lips part on a faint sigh.
“Meredith,” I murmur, voice low. “Hey. Sugarplum, time to wake up.”
Her eyes blink open, unfocused. There’s a sliver of softness there, a second of borrowed peace.
Then it hits.
The cabin. The couch. My voice in her ear. The fact that she is not in her own bed, not in her own life. Her gaze snaps to the window, the door, the shadows, the blink of cheap lights overhead. Her breath catches and her pupils widen as she remembers who I am and what I did.
Her cheeks flush, and something hot and heavy flares in my chest.
“Morning,” I say, forcing casual into my voice as if this were a normal morning. “It's Christmas.”
She snorts softly, voice rough from sleep. “Of course it is.”
On the bedside table sits a chipped mug of coffee, steam curling in the cold air, and a bowl of oatmeal I made with honey and cinnamon and dried cranberries because ten years ago she told me she could tolerate cranberries but hated raisins, and apparently I’ve been collecting details like they’re proof I’m not the villain in this story.
She stares at the tray like it might bite her.
“I brought you breakfast,” I say, continuing to pretend that all of this is normal.
Her gaze flicks back to me, then down to her wrists, then to the locked door. She lets out a soft exhale, a mixture of relief and resignation. I push up, sitting on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips, pulling her closer. Carefully, I set the tray across her lap.
“I’m going to cut those off,” I say, nodding to her wrists. “So you can eat like a person.”
Her eyes narrow a fraction. “How generous.”
“Don’t make me regret it,” I warn lightly.
She holds my stare, chin jutting up in that stubborn way I remember from years ago. Fear is still clinging to her eyes but there’s steel there too. There always has been.
I pull the small wire cutters from my pocket. Her body tenses as I slip my fingers under the plastic band, cool metal brushing the sensitive skin of her inner wrists. “Hold still,” I murmur.
The tie snaps with a soft click. Red marks circle her skin. My throat tightens at the sight, guilt and need tangling in my chest. I rub my thumb gently over the impressions, as if I could erase them by will alone.
Her breath hitches. “Nick,” she whispers, voice small.
“I'm going to trust you.” I let go of her hands slowly, as if handling something explosive. “You try to bolt, I’ll catch you. You know that. And I really don’t want to have to tie you again.”
“Then why give me the chance?” she asks softly.
I shrug, trying for casual and landing somewhere closer to crazy. “It’s Christmas. Even Grinches get parole on Christmas morning.”
She lets out a sound that almost becomes a laugh, except it’s too tired. She flexes her fingers, rubbing her wrists, then reaches for the spoon.
I watch her eat like I’m the one starving.
She starts slow, small bites, testing the temperature, eyes flicking to the door every so often like she’s mapping the room again. But the hunger wins out. By the third spoonful she’s eating properly, shoulders relaxing millimeter by millimeter.
I don’t touch my own mug on the nightstand. I don’t move. I just sit here, turned toward her, cataloging everything. How the steam from the coffee fogs her lashes. The little shiver that goes through her when the warmth of the oatmeal hits her belly.
“Does it pass inspection?” I ask quietly when her bowl is half-empty.
She swallows, licking a bit of honey from her mouth’s corner. My hand grips the blanket tighter.
“It’s good,” she admits, grudgingly. “You really enjoy feeding me.”
I chuckle softly. “It’s my turn to take care of you now.”
Her gaze snaps to mine at that. Our eyes lock. For a moment neither of us breathes.
Then she drops her eyes back to the bowl and scoops the last of it in silence. When she’s done, she pushes the tray aside. We just sit, close enough that I feel the warmth of her body through the blanket, not quite touching.
“You had a nightmare last night,” I say. It isn’t a question.
Her gaze drops. “Plural.”
“I figured.” My hand twitches, itching to reach out. “You woke me up with them.”
She goes still. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not,” I answer, letting my fingers brush the back of her hand resting on the blanket. “I want to be the one who wakes up when you’re hurting. I want to be there.”
Her jaw tightens. “You can’t fix everything that happened back then, Nick.”
“I know,” I murmur, sliding my thumb along her knuckles. “But I can make sure nothing like it ever happens again. I'm not that weak kid anymore.”
Her throat works. She doesn’t pull away.
Silence stretches. The cabin creaks softly around us, wind threading through the trees outside, fire snapping in the other room. This is the kind of quiet that used to mean danger — waiting, listening for the wrong footstep or the wrong voice.
“Last night,” she says finally, finding her words again. “On the couch.”
Every nerve in me sits bolt upright.
“Yeah,” I say carefully.
She swallows, glancing at me then away. Color rises in her cheeks, high and pretty. “I-I don't know….I wasn't thinking. I don't even know if it really happened.”
A humorless laugh escapes me. “It did. I’ve been replaying it in my head since the second you fell asleep.”
She presses her lips together like she’s fighting a smile and a grimace at the same time. “Of course you have.”
“I’ve been replaying versions of it for ten years,” I confess, words tumbling out before I can stop them. “I just didn’t know you would…look like that. Feel like that.”
She draws a shaky breath. My fingers tighten slightly where they rest on the blanket. It feels like a small victory when her fingers curl under mine.
“I don’t know what to do with this, Nick,” she says softly.
“This?” I echo. “Me? Us?”
“All of it.” She stares down at the blanket. “I know I should be fighting you. Hating you. Spending every second figuring out how to get out of here. And I will. I haven’t forgotten who I am. Who I've become after leaving this place.”
“I wouldn’t want you to,” I say honestly, voice thick.
“But…” Her voice drops lower, almost a whisper. “My body doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo. And I—” She cuts herself off, brow furrowed. “I've thought about you for years and you’re not who I thought you’d be.”
My heart feels like it stops. She's thought about me?
“Who did you think I’d be?” I ask gently.
“Angrier,” she says after a moment. “Colder. Like him.”
The word “him” hangs between us like a bad dream neither of us can shake off, the man from her nightmares, the man who took girls here and never brought them back and I never even knew about it.
I unclench my jaw. “I’m nothing like him,” I say, low and fierce. “I would burn this cabin to the ground before I ever let it be like that again.”
She really looks at me then. Whatever she sees makes something inside her ease.
“I know,” she says quietly. “That’s the problem. You brought me here and that's the first thing I thought would happen, I thought life was finally catching up to me but I didn't expect…you.”
Our eyes lock. The air gets heavier, charged with something that isn’t fear and isn’t anger, but something deeper and more electric. It’s the way she came apart in my hands last night and the way the pieces are fitting together now.
I lift my hand slowly, giving her time to pull away. She doesn’t. My fingers curl under her chin, tilting her face toward mine.
“Meredith,” I say, barely above a whisper, “if I kiss you right now, are you going to push me away?”
She licks her lips. I watch her eyes flick to the locked door, to the dim light above us, then back to mine and I set the tray back on the bedside table before moving in.
“Answer me,” I murmur, leaning closer, forehead almost touching hers. “I need to hear you say it.”
She doesn’t make me wait. “No,” she breathes. “I want you to kiss me, Nick.”
The last thread of restraint snaps.
I close the distance, pressing my mouth to hers.
It’s different from last night. Less frantic, more intentional.
I savor it all, the first press of her soft lips, the way she inhales sharply then exhales into me like she’s giving me something I don’t deserve.
My hand snakes to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair.
Her free hand — she’s free now, I gave her that — lifts slowly, hesitates, then curls in the front of my shirt.
That small, voluntary touch floors me.