Chapter 8 #2
He'd spend the rest of his life wondering what he did wrong, just like I have. He'd think that I never really saw him. The real him. The man behind the mask that he has to put on for others. He'll go back to being that empty shell. Alone forever.
And Vyla would be right there to pick up the pieces. To slide back into his life like she never left. To sink her claws in deeper than ever.
He'd think he wasn't enough.
Just like I've thought, every single time someone left me.
The realization steals my breath.
I can't do that to him.
I won't do that to him.
I won't be the person who leaves, like everyone who's left me.
"No."
The word comes out steadier than I feel.
Vyla blinks. "Excuse me?"
"I said no." My hands are shaking, but I curl them into fists at my sides. "I'm not leaving. And I'm not going to lie to him. And you know what? I'm going to tell Fercer exactly what kind of person you are. What kind of stalker you are. Because that's you, isn't it?"
She stares at me.
I stare back.
A tiny, hysterical part of my brain is screaming that this is a terrible idea, that I should backpedal immediately, that antagonizing the unhinged stalker is not the survival strategy here.
But the rest of me is too angry to care. Too certain.
Something flickers across Vyla's face. Hurt, almost. Like she didn't expect this. Like some part of her genuinely thought I'd just fold. Retreat. Disappear quietly like a good little nobody.
And maybe, in another life, I would have. The old Sandra. The one who kept everyone at arm's length and told herself it was enough. But where did that get me? Alone. Always alone.
Even Goren, a freaking alien with different cultures and beliefs, saw right through me. He told me to find someone. He wanted me to stay with them.
Besides, I'm not that Sandra anymore.
For once in my life, I'm going to fight for someone instead of just protecting myself.
"I was hoping," Vyla says softly, "that you'd be reasonable."
She reaches into her jacket.
And pulls out a laser pistol.
Of course.
Of course there's a gun.
Because why wouldn't there be a gun? Why wouldn't the obsessive stalker pull out a weapon on this lovely balcony overlooking the jungle?
This is fine. Everything is fine. I'm going to die in my boyfriend's shirt, and it's not even a cute shirt; it's the one with the tiny hole near the hem that he resolutely claimed he was going to throw away.
Focus, Sandra. Our lives depend on this! My brain screams at me, as if it’s an entirely different entity.
My heart slams against my ribs so hard I can feel it in my throat, my temples, the tips of my fingers. The balcony suddenly feels very small. Very high up. The railing presses against my back, and there's nowhere to go.
Nowhere except down.
And I don't think the jungle below would appreciate my visit.
"This doesn't have to be difficult," Vyla states.
Unless she's actually terrible at shooting—like, comically bad? Maybe she's never even fired a gun before. Maybe this is all a bluff and—
She adjusts her grip with practiced ease, pointing the weapon directly at my chest. Besides, you don't need to be a sharpshooter when your target is three feet away and frozen in terror.
Not a bluff. Definitely not a bluff.
"You could have just walked away," Vyla continues. "Started a new life somewhere. Been happy."
Happy. She kidnaps me at gunpoint and talks about happiness. The audacity would be impressive if it weren't so terrifying.
"Vyla." My voice comes out thin. Reedy. Nothing like the brave heroine I was pretending to be thirty seconds ago. "Put that down. Please. We can talk about this."
"I can't." Her voice cracks. "I can't let you ruin everything. Not when I'm so close. He just needs more time. He'll see eventually. He'll understand that I'm the one who's always been there, always loved him, always—"
She's spiraling. I can see it in her eyes. The glassiness giving way to something wild.
My legs have gone numb. My breath comes in shallow little gasps that don't seem to bring in any air.
This is real. This is actually happening.
This is how I die. Not in a dramatic space battle.
Not heroically saving someone. Just shot on a balcony by a woman with impulse control issues and unrequited love.
My obituary is going to be so embarrassing.
Think about survival. My brain, for once, is somewhat helpful. Think about options.
Options. What are my options? The balcony rail is behind me. The door is behind Vyla. She's between me and every possible exit. I could scream, but would anyone hear? Would they get here in time?
Would Fercer be the one to find my body? I never got to tell him how I feel!
Stop it!
"Okay," I manage. My hands are up now, palms out, the universal gesture of please don't shoot me. "Okay. I hear you. Let's talk about this."
"You just told me no."
"I know. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking clearly." The words taste like ash, but I'll say whatever she needs to hear if it means that gun stops pointing at my chest. If it means that I can see Fercer again. "You're right. About everything. I'm nobody. I don't deserve him."
For a moment, something flickers across her face. Hope, maybe. Satisfaction.
Then her expression hardens.
"No. You're just saying what I want to hear. You'd go straight to him the moment I turned my back."
"I won't," I try. "I swear—"
"Quiet."
The gun jerks, and I flinch so hard my teeth click together. Cold sweat prickles down my spine. My vision has narrowed to that small, dark barrel pointed at my chest.
Vyla is breathing hard now. Thinking. Planning. Her eyes dart around the balcony like she's calculating something.
"He'll be back soon," she mutters, almost to herself. "We can't be here when he returns."
We.
That word sends ice through my veins.
"Move." She gestures with the pistol toward the suite door. "Slowly. And if you scream, if you try to run, if you do anything to draw attention—"
She doesn't finish the sentence. She doesn't have to.
I move.
One step. Two. Past her, through the doorway, into the dim cool of the suite. The bed is still rumpled from last night. Our clothes are draped over a chair. My shirt: there it is, right there, five feet away. Everything looks so normal. So peaceful.
Less than an hour ago, I was in that bed. Less than an hour ago, I was happy.
"The door. Open it."
My hand is shaking so badly I almost miss the panel. My fingers fumble against the smooth surface once, twice, before finally connecting with the sensor.
The suite door slides open, revealing the empty corridor beyond.
Somewhere in this hotel, Fercer has no idea what’s going on. I was finally ready to tell him I love him, and instead I'm being marched out of our room at gunpoint. By a stalker. In a freaking shirt and—oh God—I’m not wearing any undies!
If there's security footage of this, it's going to be really embarrassing.
Shut up, brain!
But it won't shut up. It keeps chattering, keeps pointing out absurd details. The ugly pattern on the corridor carpet, the slightly crooked painting on the wall, the fact that Vyla's heels are making an absolutely ridiculous amount of noise for someone trying to be stealthy.
Maybe that's what keeps me moving. Maybe the absurdity is the only thing holding me together right now. If I stop to actually process what's happening—that I'm being kidnapped, that there's a gun at my back, that I might actually die today—
So I don't process it.
I just walk.
But I don't retreat. Not this time. Not into my walls, not into the safe numbness that's protected me for so long.
I stay present. I stay here. Terrified and furious and desperately in love with an alien who has no idea what's happening.
I chose to fight for him.
Now I just have to survive long enough to tell him that.