Chapter 63 The Present
THE PRESENT
CAIDEN
The basement held the hush of a life that didn’t belong to me.
Shane called it “making space.” A home. A fresh start. He said it like the words weren’t knives.
I lay on the pullout couch and stared at the underside of the stairs. The wood slats looked like ribs. Like a cage. Like the cabin, if you stripped the horror down to its bones and painted it suburban beige.
I kept hearing the knife.
Not the real one. The one I used that went in and didn’t come out clean. The one that changed the weight of my hands forever.
I thought I would feel more human once we got out. Instead, all I felt was more.
Emptier, sure. But the emptiness just made room for the hunger. It was a different kind of craving now. Raw and clawing. It made my hands shake, made my chest ache. Made everything about her a goddamn trigger.
Her shadow through frosted glass, the tiny indents her shoes left by the entryway, the shampoo she used, still clinging to the guest towels.
If I concentrated, I could hear her up there right now. I could always pick out her voice. Even if she only whispered, I would hear it. I was wired that way. Ruined that way.
Sabrina was working her usual campaign. “Please, Amelia, just stay for dinner. I already made too much—”
A soft reply, almost impossible to catch. But I caught it: “I don’t want to be a bother. I really should—”
“Come on. Shane will be so disappointed if you bail. He said he’s making his specialty.”
A pause. The silence means she’s thinking about it. Means she’ll stay.
My jaw locked so tight it hurt.
I didn’t want to go up there. Not really.
Not when I’d barely figured out how to be human around her again.
Not after everything she saw. The way I broke in Colorado, the way I lost control.
Not after what I did to her the night we got back.
The hunger I let loose, the way I tore at her in Shane and Sabrina’s guest bedroom, like if I devoured her mouth maybe I could erase the hell from both our bones.
She let me in. Gave herself up for a second, wild and desperate. I was drunk on her then. But when it was over, when she looked at me with those too-wide eyes, she’d seemed so fragile. So terrified of what I’d done to her, or maybe terrified of herself for wanting it.
I hadn’t touched her since. Because I didn’t want to break her again. Because I was afraid of myself, of what I’d do if I let myself have her.
Except I wanted to. Every fucked up, mangled bit of me wanted to. I fantasized about it. About putting my hands around her throat and kissing her until she couldn’t breathe, about pinning her to the wall and swallowing her cries. About what it would be like if she didn’t push me away.
I could have stayed down here, I told myself. I could have stayed safe, in the dark, unmoving. I didn’t need the heat of her, the way her voice stung every nerve. But that was a fucking lie. I was weak. I was an addict, and she was the poison.
The stairs creaked under my feet. My hands shook as I opened the basement door.
Light burned my eyes, too sudden, too bright. I blinked, caught the blurred shapes.
Shane at the stove, Sabrina plating something up, and Amelia standing there, twisting her hands. Her hair was down. She looked like she was ready to bolt, her body turned toward the exit even as she nodded along with Sabrina’s chatter.
I hovered at the edge of the kitchen like a ghost. She didn’t see me at first.
“You made it,” Shane said, a forced brightness in his voice.
I grunted. My eyes caught on Amelia. I didn’t want to look at her, but I couldn’t stop.
She didn’t look at me at all.
I wondered if she was replaying that night, the same as I did.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she didn’t even think about it. Maybe I was the only one haunted.
But the ache in my chest said she did. Said she burned for it just as much as I did, and hated herself for it.
I stood at the edge of the room, not moving, not breathing, waiting to see if she’d meet my eye. She didn’t.
She always did that when she felt exposed.
God, I craved her. Even when I hated her, I wanted her. Especially then. That was the curse. Hatred and desire, always tangled together, always pulling me back to her.
My hands curled into fists. I forced my voice steady. “What’s for dinner?”
Sabrina looked over, startled to see me out of my hole. “Oh! Pasta. Shane’s recipe.”
Amelia gave a small shudder, so slight I almost missed it.
She hadn’t expected to see me. That was good. It would keep her on edge. Maybe if she was on edge, she’d stop haunting me.
But even now, with the whole room between us, she took up too much space. I could feel her. Smell her. Want her.
I would keep my distance, I promised myself. Act like I didn’t care. Like I hadn’t memorized every inch of her skin, every sound she made when she broke.
But I was a liar. I’d always been a liar.
I followed the others into the dining room, every muscle tense, feeling like a wolf among sheep. If I so much as touched her, I knew I’d never stop.
So I wouldn’t.
I would sit there, and I would pretend.
But if she met my eye, if she reached for me, if she so much as whispered my name—
God help us both.
Dinner was nothing. Just an act. Four strangers playing house, pretending there’s no history bleeding through the cracks in the drywall.
Shane set down plates with that practiced ease, eyes bright with some breed of optimism I’d never understand. Sabrina hovered behind him, a nervous hurricane of words and movement. You could hear her energy in the way she set the forks.
Amelia sat across from me.
Not beside me. Across. As far away as the table would allow, tucked small between her hair and the shadows like she could disappear if she tried hard enough.
But she couldn’t. Not from me.
Shane poured the wine. “Look, I know it’s not five-star, but I think you’ll be impressed. Maybe even convert you, Sabrina.”
She grinned. “Anything’s better than my cooking.” A pointed look at Amelia. “Except for your lasagna. Still dreaming about it.”
A nothing laugh from Amelia. Fragile, like glass about to crack. “Not a high bar. I lived mostly on cereal and instant ramen for years.”
My jaw flexed. My eyes flicked to her hands, small and quick, twirling pasta in practiced motions. I remembered those hands. Fisted in my shirt, clawing at my neck, trembling when I kissed her. She was doing it again. Hiding the tremor. She always tried so fucking hard not to be seen.
I wanted to see her. I wanted to see every raw nerve.
Sabrina beamed. “You should cook for us next time, then.”
Her head snapped up too fast, startled. “Maybe,” she mumbled. “If you’re brave.”
Shane shot me a knowing look. “You could use some tips from Amelia, right, Caiden?”
Every word hit like gravel in my throat. I shrugged. “Doubt she wants my help.”
A twitch in her lips. Not quite a smile, not quite a snarl.
Sabrina was relentless. “You’re practically family now. It’d be nice. Healing, you know?”
I wanted to laugh. I wanted to scream. Nothing about this was healing.
I shoved food into my mouth, chewing hard enough to feel my teeth grind.
Sometimes I caught her looking at me. Just a flick.
Just the smallest glance, like she couldn’t help herself.
Like she remembered how I kissed her in that room, dragging her down with me, drowning her in the heat and the hunger.
I could feel it in the way she held every muscle tight, waiting for me to snap.
She was scared. Of me, or of herself, or both.
I could have told her I was scared, too. But I’d never say that out loud.
Shane and Sabrina kept up the chatter, trading war stories about open houses and work and shit that didn’t matter.
Sabrina’s voice got sharp whenever she asked Amelia about her writing.
Like she wanted to pull her closer, make her feel welcome.
Amelia answered with half-sentences. Never offering more than she had to.
I envied that. The ability to be quiet, to hide. I’d spent my whole life being too fucking loud.
I pushed away from the table when I was done. Couldn’t take another second.
The others followed, drifting toward the living room. Some movie was queued up already, light from the TV flickering across the couch.
Amelia hesitated in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame. She looked up, caught me staring. For a second, the whole fucking world froze.
Then she looked away.
I took my place on the couch, putting just enough distance between us so it wouldn’t look obvious. But I could feel her. Feel the gravity of her, the ache in my bones.
Shane gave a whistle. “Movie time. Everyone ready?”
Sabrina snuggled in beside him, her laughter too bright. “Don’t fall asleep, boys.”
I could have laughed at that. But all my humor was gone.
Amelia sat next to me, her whole body tense. She wouldn’t let herself relax. Wouldn’t dare touch me.
I wanted her to.
But I didn’t move.
I just let the ache build, let it rip me open from the inside. I deserved it.
The credits started rolling. The lights went low.
I wondered if she would ever forgive me.
But more than that, I wondered what it would take for me to forgive myself.
The movie was boring. I couldn’t even tell you the plot, the names of the actors.
Every cell in my body was tuned to how close she sat, the heat radiating off her legs, the slow, inevitable way her thigh drifted until it was pressed flush against mine.
I pretended not to notice, but I noticed everything.
She didn’t move away. She never did, not when it mattered.
At first, I kept a safe inch between us. As the movie sagged on, she leaned in, maybe by accident, maybe on purpose. I tracked the hitch in her breath when our knees brushed. I tested it, subtle, shifting just enough that her weight shifted too. Electric. I was starving.
Her hair smelled like wind and water.
I wanted to drag her onto my lap and devour her. I wanted to pin her wrists and ask her if she hated me or if she just needed a reason to give in. But I sat stone-still, jaw grinding, fists jammed between my thighs so I didn’t reach for her.
On TV, a couple kissed in the rain. Laughter; wet faces and desperate hands. I barely saw them.
Shane started nodding off, slumped at the end of the couch, and Sabrina yawned theatrically. “We’re grabbing ice cream. You two want any?”
I shook my head. Amelia didn’t answer.
They were gone. Just like that. We were alone. The silence was total. My blood roared in my ears.
She spoke without looking at me. “Why do you do that?”
I blinked. “Do what?”
She laughed, but it wasn’t funny. “One second you act like I’m not here, the next—”
A flash in her eyes. “The next you’re…right here. Like you’d kill anyone who even looked at me wrong. Then you pull away. Like you want to punish me for something. Why?”
I breathed through my teeth, scared my hands would shake. “You’re imagining things.”
She turned, biting hard on her bottom lip, searching my face. “You kissed me. That night. Then you disappeared.”
I closed my eyes. “You shoved me off.”
“I—” She caught herself, a tremor in her voice. “I didn’t want to. I was scared.”
I was quiet a long time. Then: “Scared of me?”
“No.” A rush of air, like she couldn’t believe I’d even ask. “Not of you. Of what I wanted. Of how it felt.”
I shifted, fingers digging into my thighs. “Sure didn’t seem like you liked it.”
She laughed, a broken sound. “I liked it. That’s the problem. I didn’t want it to stop.”
I couldn’t take it. I turned toward her, so close now I could taste the heat coming off her skin. I reached up, thumb grazing her jaw, just to see if she’d flinch.
She didn’t.
She tilted her face up, eyes on my mouth. “Why are you like this?” she whispered.
“I don’t know.” My voice was shredded. “You fuck me up.”
Her hand found my wrist, squeezing just enough to ground me. “I hate it.”
“I do too.”
She licked her lips. “So…what, then? Just keep pretending?”
“If we didn’t pretend, I’d probably ruin you.”
Her laugh was like breaking glass. “Too late.”
I leaned in, helpless, aiming for her mouth. But footsteps pounded down the hall and I jerked back, pulse wild, hands falling to my lap like I’d been caught stealing.
She scooted away. Gone.
Sabrina bustled in with bowls, giving us a look. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Amelia said, voice paper-thin.
She stood, stiff and deliberate, and thanked them for dinner. At the door, she didn’t look back.
I sat on the couch, insides scraping raw, watching her silhouette vanish in the porch light. I let the fire in my chest burn, contained, furious, starving.
I didn’t follow. But I wanted to.
Fuck, I wanted to.
It wasn’t normal anymore, not for me. All I could think was how close I’d been to losing control, not in violence, but in wanting.
That was the most dangerous kind of losing control.
Possessive thoughts kept licking up inside my skull like fire.
If anyone else touched her like I did, I’d break something.
I hated myself for it.
I hated my father for building this in me. Rage as love. Control as safety. Possession as proof. I hated Amelia for making me want what I didn’t deserve. And I hated myself most of all because the hate didn’t erase the truth.
It only fed it.
Wanting her wasn’t a sweet feeling. It was a slow, consuming violence and I was losing the fight to keep it caged.