Page 60 of When Sinners Fear
“Oh. Yes. Of course,” I answer, a little stifled despite my own request. Visiting them in person to assure them that I’m okay was what I wanted. Leaving here all together, after what happened today, fills me with new dread.
That heated energy seems to build inside of me, and the tightness in my chest is back. It rises as I take an exaggerated breath but seems unable to relax back down again.
“When?” I ask.
“After dinner.” His answer is clipped.
“Knox?” He looks at me, and our eyes lock, drawn and held as if communicating their own words. Things have grown complicated, and I hate that. I run on logic and reason, action and consequence, and I hate the consequences sleeping together has had.
It was meant to pull us together, not finalise our time and bring an end to it.
He turns to go, clearly not wanting to talk. “I’ll be in my study.”
“I’m not cooking dinner.”
“Fine. We’ll order something in now.”
“Is that what you expected? For me to earn my keep?” I think back to our conversation at the museum. Or was it after that? My memory is a little hazy as to when we spoke about why I came back to help my family and what I did for them. He won’t have that trouble; he’ll be able to recall exactly what I said to him.
“No. You’re here because, well, fuck knows, Peyton.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat. And so the fuck do I,” he part shouts as if he’s angry with me. Maybe he is?
I want to rage and shout and yell at him. Last night it felt like… well, something came together between us, something soothed a part of me that broke in that prison, and now it feels like I’m being punished all over again.
The rest of the evening progresses with snatched glances and scowls between us. The tension is worse than ever, and I yo-yo between wanting to lash out at him or cry. If he doesn’t want me, maybe putting him behind me would be best because this isn’t healthy. Healing all the parts of me might be easier without the constant reminders.
Before long, it's time for me to go. He makes the point clear by standing and telling me that this is for the best. I take a last look around the room, fighting with my own insides about what is best. I follow him as he tracks outside, though, and slip in the car when he opens the door. There’s no luggage or possessions to pack – everything I’ve worn the last few days belongs to Lexi. Or maybe Mariana.
He slams the door, rounds the car, and we drive.
Nausea rolls in my stomach as we grow closer to home, and the anxiety of what that means forms into something terrifying in my mind.
“Stop.”
He keeps driving and turns onto the road. “No.”
My breathing and pulse are racing as anxiety ripples through me. Worse than the last time we tried this. “Stop, Knox. I’m not ready.” But as I say it, I wonder if I’ll ever be ready. The shame of my behaviour and for what happened paralyses me.
He takes no notice and pulls up, keeping the car running.
I look over at him, his hands still on the wheel, his eyes forward. He doesn’t turn to look at me or say anything. He’s hard as ice, freezing me out like he did when we were first in the cage.
With shaky hands, I unbuckle the seatbelt and shove at the car door, angry that it’s come to this.
“Keep going, Peyton. Leave.”
His callous words snap my head towards him, but he’s not interested in me. There’s no lingering look, no last question or wish of good luck. Perhaps he’s feeling guilt about my involvement or all the things he subjected me to.
I’d give everything to know what he’s thinking.
I take a breath and push myself out of the car, slamming the door behind me with all the strength I can muster. The second it closes, the car peels away from the curb and down the street.
My gaze trails the car as my fingers intertwine with one another. I find my thumb and start to drum out dots and dashes until I can’t see him anymore. A chill snakes up and through my body, squeezing me tightly around my chest.
No.