Chapter Three #2
My body doesn’t feel like it belongs to me anymore.
I’m bubbling, my blood frothing, the anger I work so hard to smother exploding into violence.
Before I realize what I’m doing, the knife is in one of my hands.
As the other grips his hair, my brain barely registers that it’s longer than he’s ever kept it.
Bringing the knife to his throat shouldn’t feel this effortless.
Neither should pressing the blade into his skin until he flinches.
He shudders a ragged breath, gasping, “Fucking hell,” his voice low and throaty.
My shadow obscures his face, but I don’t miss the way his body bucks, almost as if I’ve stunned him again, even though I didn’t.
“I told you to stay the fuck away from me.” I expect my voice to shake the way the hand holding the knife does.
It doesn’t, strengthening my resolve. Fear of him getting away with this again fills me.
The situation will get spun, and it will fall back on me.
I’ll be the problem, the one overreacting, just like last time.
Without proof, it’s just my word against Nicholas’s—and no one ever believes me.
I hear the cop’s voices in my head. He was worried about you. He was just stopping by.
Yanking the knife from his throat, I pull out my phone and hit record. Putting the knife back to his neck, I take a deep breath.
“Say your name, that you broke in, and why you’re here. How you knew I was here.”
What if he won’t? How far will I go to make him?
His swallow shifts the blade. I press a tiny bit harder.
As far as I have to.
All he has to do is admit he’s here for revenge, and all his I appreciate my wife correcting my path was bullshit, is bullshit. Nicholas is only contrite when it serves him. If he confesses he followed me across the country, I won’t hurt him. Won’t hurt him worse, anyway.
This could be over, though.
Forever.
Shattered stained glass appears behind my eyelids when I blink.
Crimson running along the grout pattern on the church lobby’s tile floor.
Red lights flashing in a dark parking lot.
How the EMTs whispered and stared as they loaded Nicholas’s stretcher in the ambulance, because a six-foot-five televangelist falling through his office window doesn’t happen every day.
They’d marveled at how the fall from the atrium to the tile floor of the lobby didn’t kill him.
Not now.
I focus on the monster beneath me, not how he lives in my memory.
He groans, voice crackling. “Margot, it’s me. Caine. We were on the phone a few hours ago, for fuck’s sake.” Another sentence follows, but I don’t hear it.
Oh no, no, no.
The sensation of falling overwhelms me, my pride slipping through the floor.
Shit.
I scramble for the flashlight. Caine squints into the beam I accidentally shine in his eyes while confirming his identity. His dark hair’s mussed beneath the hood of his sweatshirt, and a bruise is blooming on his jaw.
As if sensing how badly I need to hide in the shadows, the power returns. Various beeps and chirps from appliances are muffled by the blood pounding in my ears.
“It seems there was some confusion. I am supposed to be making you tap out of the haunted house. Although I have to say electrocution is a great idea. Think our liability insurance will cover that?” His voice is rough, somehow amused, despite the fact that he’s been zapped twice and is currently still bound.
“Shit, Caine,” I sputter, hurrying to untie him. “I’m so sorry. I heard footsteps—what are you even—it’s after ten.”
He rolls to sitting, tugging his sweatshirt roughly down over his lap.
“What the fuck was that?” Side-eyeing me like he expects to be stunned again, Caine rubs his wrists.
His sleeves ride up as he does, exposing more of the distinct geometric floral tattoos that cover his arms and the top of his left hand.
The top of his right is tattooed too, but with a design that looks a little like lace, or jewels, not flowers.
How didn’t I notice those when I tied him up?
How didn’t I notice he looks nothing like Nicholas?
It’s the delicate line of blood snaking down Caine’s throat, undulating when he swallows, that forces me to speak. “Let me get something for your neck.”
“It’s fine.” His words bounce off the back of my head. I’m already walking to the bathroom. I need to do something. Take action to make this better. Move to release the tension humming beneath my skin.
Too soon, I’m back in the bedroom, hydrogen peroxide and cotton balls in hand.
Caine is leaning against the side of the bed.
He’s silent, unusual for him. Fidgeting, I feel exposed.
It isn’t the lack of decent pants; it’s the way he’s watching me.
As if he’s seen something I didn’t mean to show him.
He doesn’t speak until I’m dabbing at his throat. “Can we start this visit over? Or will you try to kill me again?”
“You’re safe. For now.” Trying to force myself into our usual dynamic exposes my brittleness, but I press on, trying to reshape myself.
“And yes, let’s start over. Don’t act like a creep, and you might make it past hello.
” As I speak, I’m relieved the slice on his neck is just that: a slice. It’s already stopped bleeding.
“Hi, Margot, it’s good to see you again.
Sorry to scare the piss out of you. I tried to call and let you know I was coming in, but it went to voicemail.
” Expectant, he waits, brown eyes questioning.
The scrutiny unnerves me. He’s too close, or maybe I am.
This is where I should explain my behavior, but I don’t know how.
I’d need a PowerPoint and a few hours. Possibly a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting Your Ex-Husband to Get Revenge, if that’s a thing.
I can do this.
Telling Jeremy about my past was painful, but I did it. Caine doesn’t need to know nearly as much. Just enough to explain this disaster.
Deep breath.
“I’m so sorry.” Apologies are always a safe start.
“I panicked when I heard someone moving around up here and didn’t have signal to call nine-one-one.
The no-power thing is probably why I didn’t get your voicemail.
” Heat spreads across my chest, the cotton of my T-shirt oppressive.
It’s a sort of fib; panic implies a loss of control I didn’t experience. Every violent choice was all mine.
Just like before.
STOP.
“You were scared.” Caine works his hands through his dark, unruly hair. His gaze makes it impossible to break eye contact.
“Of course.” Scared sounds better than bloodthirsty. “I thought someone broke in.”
“So, do I get a kiss, then?” He adds, “Since I did technically scare you,” as if to make sure I understand.
Once upon a time, my body’s eagerness to travel from terror to arousal horrified me. Now, it’s a quirk, the same way two people speaking to me at once makes me want to rip my ears off.
“Not how the bet works.” My voice sounds too flirty. “I have to tap out for you to win.” Gesturing at the carnage around us—bloody cotton balls, dog leash, and stun gun—I hold his gaze. “This is the opposite. If anyone tapped out here, it was you.”
Narrowing his eyes, he ponders. Despite myself, I can’t keep from wondering how he tastes.
Adrenaline comedown and the bubbling relief that it wasn’t Nicholas have me feeling reckless.
Combine that with the fact that my arousal-fear connection imprinted on him that first haunt, and it’s entirely too easy to picture myself closing the distance between us.
“If you keep looking at me like that…” His voice is a rasp, snapping me back to reality. “I’m kissing you. Fuck the bet.”
Scowling, I give him my best withering look. “Down, boy. I’m looking at you with concern. Did you hit your head when you fell?” Flipping him off, I move my hand back and forth in front of him. “Track my finger. Better yet, tell me how many I’m holding up.”
“That is no way to treat someone you just attacked.” He grabs for my hand, but I pull it back faster.
Guilt that ebbed while I was admiring his objectively kissable lips returns. “I am truly so sorry. Seriously, I—”
He waves the apology away. “Don’t say sorry. Just tell me why someone broke into the house and your go-to move was a dog leash and a butcher’s knife?”