Grace
I have to make up my mind. And there are only two options.
Either I take two steps back and stay where I was, or I take six steps forward.
Naked, I slip out of his arms and sit up, then wrap my arms around my legs and rest my face against my knees.
I still miss my mom so much I can’t put it into words.
For a long time, I used to miss my old room, my plush toys—my life. Everything he took from me, mercilessly. He robbed me of my childhood and tore out my soul.
He broke me into pieces and changed me.
But there was someone else I missed during those four years.
He was by my side instead of my mother when I got my first period. It came pretty late—I was already fifteen… and it was in his arms that I grew into a woman. It was on his side that I grew up. He was my everything. My partner, my protector, my lover, my friend.
It’s hard to find the right path through this mess. Maybe there is no right path—only crossroads—and the point is to choose a road where my soul isn’t screaming in pain, where I’m not missing anything vital.
Chase brushes my hair away from my neck and presses a gentle kiss to my bare skin.
I look back over my shoulder and give him a warm smile.
We made love after we came back from the meadow.
Really made love. There was nothing dirty or rough about it.
It was gentle and sensual. Our bodies wove together delicately, and our souls soared, breaking free of the chains—the horrors, the loneliness—of the past few years.
And we became who we used to be. An ordinary boy and girl who love each other. Who are in love.
I sneak a glance at his tight, muscular body—but my gaze keeps snagging on his eyes, wonderful and unreadable, on that handsome, dangerous face, on the dark fall of hair across his forehead.
I get dressed and slip out of bed. This love is sinful, unacceptable, because it’s built on horrors—on obsession instead of pure, noble emotion.
But it’s him I need, and not only because he can meet me in my pain.
When I’m with him, I don’t feel like damaged goods, rejected by society.
He’s the man my body welcomes without resistance.
He’s the one who’s had my heart for nine years.
“Something is troubling you.”
It isn’t a question or a suspicion. It’s a hard fact: Chase can see straight through me.
“I’m horrible.”
“Don’t feel guilty. You were never his, and Cyrus knows that, too.”
“That still isn’t what he deserves from me. After I got out of the hospital, he took me in, cared for me, and… helped. A lot.”
“You feel bad for him. That’s normal. But you have no idea what I went through when I saw you kissing him. Or when he touched you. When he called you that disgusting word.”
My brows knit.
“Baby.” The word rolls off his tongue with distaste. His eyes are midnight-dark, his voice ice-cold. It makes me shiver.
I draw a deep breath and let it out, trembling.
“I still have to talk to him.”
I pace the small motel room with its moth-eaten furniture, nerves skittering under my skin. My burning, itching skin is red. Rashes have bloomed where the grass rubbed me raw and ants bit me.
“Do you think I’m normal?” I ask him.
He lifts one arched, brown eyebrow. His eyes soften.
“Does it matter?”
Everything about him—his face, his posture—radiates perfect calm. I want to grab the standing lamp and throw it at him. He’s stretched out on the bed with his arms crossed, one leg draped over the other in a languid, effortless pose.
“It matters to me,” I snap, stomping my foot.
“Would it change your mind if I said no?”
“You know what? Let’s just drop it.” I make a shooing motion with my hand. “Your opinion doesn’t count anyway.”
“You’re hurting my feelings,” he says with an evil grin. “Come here before you wear out the floor.”
Chase reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small piece of paper.
Curious, I walk over, trying to see what it is.
He tugs me into his lap and kisses me. Our lips move in unison—slowly, sensually.
My skin warms, my heart pounds. I feel like a teenage girl in love, someone who could spend the whole day kissing.
He slides the paper toward me. My eyes fly open, and I break the kiss. My gaze snaps to the dirty, yellowed page.
“You’ve kept it,” I whisper.
“What does that tell you?” He tucks my hair behind my ear, watching my reaction with quiet curiosity.
“It tells me I’m crazy.” I bury my face—burning with shame—in my palms.
“And wonderful. Who would’ve thought such an angelic, innocent body could hide such a little monster?”
“Don’t make me slap you, because I’d do it without hesitation,” I warn him, lifting my chin.
A wide, devilish grin spreads across his face. He tips his forehead against mine, and together we stare down at the note I left him when I “left him.”
I’m sorry
I lift my head and look deep into his eyes.
There are moments when you choose your path and stick to it—no matter what happens.
I lost something when I was a prisoner. Maybe my emotional maturity got stunted.
But maybe now I’m ready to grow up—to not lay the blame for my sins on someone else, but to take responsibility for the consequences of my decisions.
And no matter what happens, I need to stick with him.
I need to bear every disapproving, acidic look I get—that’s the price of having him in real life, not just in my daydreams.
I melt against his shoulder, and we hold each other in the room’s quiet.
Because sometimes silence is worth more than words.
Right now, we speak with our bodies and our souls—because we don’t love with words, we love with our hearts.
And there are some things in life that don’t come with explanations.
Sometimes you just have to feel. And we do—we feel each other.
There’s been an inexplicable connection between us for nine years.
We breathe in each other’s scent—the one that hasn’t changed at all.
And still, that familiar scent makes us feel at home every second.
Just like we feel at home in the way we touch each other: gently, lovingly.
I jerk my head up in panic when someone knocks on the door.
My heart leaps into my throat—terror floods me as adrenaline surges through my veins.
Chase makes me slide off his lap and points to the corner of the room.
The silence turns eerie. Even my steps are so soft they’re barely audible as I cross the room carefully.
I stand in the corner like a coward and wring my hands while he moves to the door and cracks it open an inch.
Nerve-racking seconds pass, then a woman’s voice slips into the silence.
I’d been expecting a gunshot. A huge weight lifts off my shoulders.
“Will you let me in?” she doesn’t say hello or wait for an answer as she slips through the gap. She scans the room and spots me standing there, my stomach knotted tight.
“Nikky. How?” I breathe.
She looks at me with an evil grin. Her immaculate, bright-white teeth flash beneath blood-red lipstick.
Her lush, feminine scent floods the room, smothering the characteristic must of old furniture.
She’s dressed in an elegant, polished outfit, tiny pearl earrings lining her earlobes, matching the pearl necklace resting at the base of her sleek, swanlike throat—she looks like some heartthrob.
Her soft blond hair is twisted into a delicate, trendy knot at the nape of her neck.
Nikky looks like Mom—it’s like Mom’s living inside her.
“How did I find you?” She lifts one arched eyebrow.
I nod.
“This lovebird here”—she points at Chase—“didn’t really bother with covering your tracks.”
I furrow my brows in confusion, but before I can say anything, Nikky keeps going.
“Because you aren’t running from anyone, are you, Chase?” She flashes Chase a wide, victorious grin, then laughs—low and provocative. It isn’t real laughter. It’s laced with derision.
I take a step toward her, but I stay close to Chase. They’ve both proven to me they’re lunatics—but I’m not afraid of Chase.
“How do you know that?” I ask.
Nikky stops laughing. Her face darkens, she presses her lips together, and anger ignites in her eyes.
She reaches into her bag and pulls out… my diary.
The tension in the room is palpable—it feels like we’re sitting on a powder keg.
Strength drains from my body—I almost collapse, but I steel myself and manage to stay on my feet.
Emotions sweep over me like a blizzard. I curl my hands into fists and dig my nails into my palms.
“Finders…” she says, enunciating every syllable, “keepers.” She looks at Chase and tosses the diary onto the bed with casual ease. It falls open at a marked page—I look, and the blood drains from my face. It’s a drawing of me, in the nude.
“I’ve been living with them for two years, hanging out in their circles—I’ve had plenty of time to get to know them.
They’re not the kind of people who run away.
But if you don’t believe me, read his entries.
This is all an act made up by this self-centered psychopath.
He’s been manipulating you, Grace—lying to you.
Over and over again. He’s a sly one,” she adds with a forced smile.
“He doesn’t have to kidnap you to chain you to him anymore, because you’re not a minor anymore.
” The muscles tighten around Nikky’s eyes.
“And no one even gets the chance to come near you, because this madman kills anyone who so much as looks at you. Am I right, Chase?” Nikky’s eyes gleam with victory.
I fold my arms across my chest. I feel so stupid.
“Chase…” My voice trembles.
He looks at me, terrifying anger flashing in his eyes.
“Is it true what Nikky’s saying? Were you lying to me? Were you the one who sent those gifts?”