CHAPTER NINE #4
Another angry clench of his jaw as if he’s mashing the words between his teeth.
But you know what, fuck it. I want him to say it.
I want him to admit the truth. I press the tip of the knife harder and lean forward.
“Say it. Say you did it because you hate me. Because you hate me so so much, the Turner Princess, that you wanted to traumatize me for life. You wanted to give me nightmares, scare me so bad that I won’t be able to sleep. Admit it. You did it because—”
“Because you traumatized me,” he growls, every line on his face standing taut. Sharp and tight. Even his scar juts out, looking furious.
I freeze. “What?”
In response he leans down, despite the knife at his neck, almost breaking his own skin.
Not only that, he even puts his hands, that have been up since the moment I told him to put them there, on the tree, up by my head, looming over me, caging me in.
I should tell him to back off. I’m the one with the knife here.
I could drive it into his neck right now, but my words don’t seem to come, and my hand doesn’t move to strike.
All I do is arch my spine against the tree and look up at him.
“I did it,” he says, his voice rough and heavy with cobwebs and gravel, “because you scared the fuck out of me. ’Cause when I realized where you were, my fuckin’ heart stopped.
Didn’t even realize I had one anymore, not the one that beats.
Thought it was damaged right alongside my head.
But no, it’s there, and when it started back up again, it was beatin’ so fast, poundin’ like a fuckin’ maniac, that I thought it would beat right out of my chest. Every second I spent racin’ to get to you felt like a motherfuckin’ year.
And then I get there and find you almost unconscious, on the floor, terrified out of your goddamn mind, and I thought I could tear that whole cabin apart with my bare hands.
I thought I could set it on fire, burn it down ’cause I was too late.
’Cause somethin’ happened to you. Somethin’…
bad.” He grits his teeth again, leaning into the knife even more, spearing me with his green eyes.
“So I did it because you traumatized my head; you traumatized my goddamn heart. Because I wanted to teach you a lesson for givin’ me nightmares, makin’ me think I was too late, that I couldn’t save you.
I set my fuckin’ wolves on you, Peyton, for puttin’ yourself in danger and scarin’ the life out of me. ”
This is the first time.
That he’s said my name like a curse. And it sounds as bad as when he calls me Princess. No, it sounds worse because now I know what it feels like when he calls me that in his soft, gravelly tone. And I want him to say my name like that.
You ever, fuckin’ ever, put yourself in danger like you did tonight, I’ll let’em fuckin’ feed on you.
That’s what he said just after he pulled me away from the cliff edge too. I remember now. But I don’t understand. Why would it matter to him? Why would he care? Not only care but enough to be afraid.
“And you’ve been doin’ this to me for months now, haven’t you?” he bites out.
“What?”
“Makin’ me watch you. Goin’ out with all these men,” he rumbles, his face dipping even more, and I stiffen. “Even though you don’t like ’em. You don’t wanna be with ’em. You ditch ’em the first chance you get. You spike their drinks. You give them a fake address. Ain’t that right?”
My heart is racing for another reason altogether now, and I swallow. “I don’t know wh-what you’re talking about.”
“Why?”
“Wh-why what?”
“Why the fuck do you act like you want their attention when you don’t?
” he asks in his biting tone again. “Why do you put yourself through that? Put up with their disgustin’ eyes and dirty hands.
Why do you let ’em breathe your air when you don’t wanna be anywhere close to them?
Why the fuck do you do that to yourself? ”
He noticed.
I know he’s been watching me for so long, but this is beyond that. This is beyond what I would’ve thought a man hell-bent on revenge and hatred would notice. He noticed the truth. He noticed, as if the connection I thought we had, through dark shadows and bedroom windows, was real.
In any case, I can’t tell him that. That he’s pegged me exactly right or why I do these things. I can’t tell anyone that.
I take a deep breath and, pressing the knife at his neck, I say, “It’s none of your business why. And don’t forget who’s holding the knife. I’d step back if I were you.”
He doesn’t. Not right away. For the first few moments, he studies me carefully, and I try not to squirm under his scrutiny.
I try not to blush or look away, appear in any way or form that I’m hiding something.
I’m about to ask him again to step back or I will really stab him with the knife when he moves.
With his hands still on the tree, he inches away from me. Then, “You’ve got three seconds.”
“What?”
“Stab me,” he says, “and make me pay for everythin’ I did. Or lose your fuckin’ chance.”
“Wait, what? I—”
“One.”
My eyes widen. “Oh my God, you’re doing the thing again.”
“Two.”
“I can’t believe you’re counting. For this. For your own—”
“Three.”
My heart thuds. “Radisson—”
He licks his lips. “Time’s up.”
Before I can say anything, he grabs my hand, wrapping his fingers around my wrist, and yanks it away from his neck.
Just like that, without even blinking. But instead of taking the weapon away from me like I’d expected, he guides my hand down to his stomach, knife and all.
To the spot he pointed out earlier. The one between the ribs, where there’s no bone to stop me from cutting through the muscle.
Then, looking me in the eyes and still keeping a hold on my wrist, he plunges the blade in.
Stabbing himself.