Fear

42

I woke to his warmth. My injured leg draped across his waist, my arm curled weakly against his chest. The duvet cocooned us, trapping the heat, his scent, the faint rasp of his breathing.

And his hand. Gentle fingers threading through my hair, tugging softly, teasing strands like he was half-lost in thought. I froze at first, unsure if he was even aware of what he was doing — but then I looked up.

And he was already looking at me.

His face was bare of the usual masks. No smirk. No cruel glint. Just... sad. Not angry. Not dangerous. Sad in a way that made my chest ache before I could stop it.

Neither of us said a word. Not for a while.

The silence stretched. I heard only the faint hum of the heating vent, the whisper of fabric when he shifted, the muted thud of his heart under my cheek. His eyes carried something heavy — remorse, maybe, even if he'd never say it out loud. And I found myself believing it.

His thumb grazed my cheek, brushing gently, anchoring me in the moment. I shivered under the touch.

"You should sleep more," he whispered. His voice was quiet now, rough and tinged with something deeper. Not the cold, angry voice I'd grown to expect.

"Don't think I can," I murmured, my throat catching. I winced at the pain in my knee as I shifted.

His jaw worked, words fighting to rise, but they died in silence. Instead, he leaned in and pressed his mouth to mine.

Our third kiss.

The first had been a threat, a weapon. The second, a manipulation tactic on my part. This one was different. More delicate, like he was afraid I might break if he pressed harder.

His soft lips tasted faintly of whiskey and tobacco. His breath warmed my skin where it fanned out, shallow. I clutched his wrist without thinking — not to push him away, but to anchor him there. I inhaled him eagerly despite myself. Gunpowder and leather, pine and sin, mixed into an intoxicating cologne I couldn't get enough of.

The kiss broke, but his hands didn't leave me. They wandered instead — up my arm, down my spine, across the curve of my hip where the thin nightshirt clung to me. His touch was exploratory, not demanding. Mapping me like uncharted ground.

I trembled; not entirely from fear. He did too.

Neither of us moved to go anywhere. Not to eat. Not to get dressed. The day stretched long, the light shifting across the walls. We stayed there in the bed, tangled together. Sometimes he whispered, small scraps of comfort, nothing grand — just, "I've got you, rest, I'm here."

"Do you hate me?" I asked once, almost too quiet to hear.

His brow furrowed. "No. I've never hated you, princess."

He paused, breath shaky. "Do you hate me?"

I couldn't answer that. Selfish, maybe, I know. But not after everything he'd put me through for months. I couldn't say I didn't hate him. Part of me still did. Part of me was still afraid he'd pull out a knife, cut my arms again, pour blood on me again, or try to manipulate me again. Meaning, I'll never be able to fully trust him. I couldn't tell him the truth, but he knew what my silence meant anyway. He pulled me closer and sighed.

But he and I also knew that things were changing between us. This would never have happened if it weren't for that kiss the day I failed to kill Dylan. Now, we were both broken, clinging to each other like survivors in a wreckage.

When I shut my eyes, the gunshot rang out again. I could still vividly see Dylan's head splitting open, still felt the warm blood spraying across my face, the taste of iron and bile in my mouth.

My body wouldn't stop shaking. Even pressed against Tyler — even with his arm tight around me — I shuddered like the horror of it all had sunk into my bones.

And I could feel him shaking too. His heart still raced too fast, even hours later. The guilt was eating away at him. I could tell by the way his grip tightened, like he was terrified I'd slip away. Like he knew he should've killed Dylan sooner.

—

By evening, the light had dulled. My head rested on his chest, his fingers still in my hair. But then he shifted.

He rolled me gently onto my back, careful not to jostle my body too much. He moved my injured leg aside and settle between them.

His body hovered over mine, his weight braced on his forearms beside my head. And his face. It was shadowed, but his eyes were lit with something raw and emotional. He looked at me like he wanted to say everything — an apology, a confession, a plea. But the words stuck. His lips parted, closed again, and for a while, we just stared at each other.

Those onyx eyes, the ones I'd recognised as belonging to the man who'd stalked me months before kidnapping me. They held more emotion than I'd ever seen in anything black. The same onyx eyes I now, somehow, found a semblance of comfort in.

I gazed up at him, unsure and still afraid. But what he did next sent us both into a whole new emotion. Something I hadn't expected yet.

He dipped his head and pressed his lips to my neck, warm and searching. Soft at first, then harder, sucking until heat bloomed and my skin ached. A mark. Then another. Hickeys across my collar bones, along my jawline. His control frayed with each one, his breathing becoming more ragged, growing hungrier, more possessive, more demanding.

I gasped, but not in fear this time. My hands clutched at his shoulders, nails dragging against his skin. My body betrayed me, arching into him, needing the weight, the proof that I was still here, still alive, and this was really happening.

Then his voice rasped against my throat, low, desperate. "Tell me to stop."

I swallowed hard. My heart stuttered. My skin tingled where it shouldn't.

Heat pooled low in my stomach, and that's when I realised. That's when I knew it wasn't just trauma bonding. It wasn't just lust.

I liked him.

My body liked this.

My mind still hung on, sure, but even that was starting to slip when the graze of his teeth against my throat stung so good.

"I... I don't want you to."

It spilled out in a moan before I could stop it. Before fear of consequence could twist the words into lies.

His head lifted, eyes locking with mine. The darkness, lust, and need in them momentarily turned into something softer. Searching. Doubting. Pleading.

"You sure?"

My chest ached, but I nodded. "Ty..."

His hand slid down my side, coming to rest on my hip. Then it trailed lower, his eyes never leaving mine. He was gauging my reaction. I only showed positive. I let out a soft, shaky breath as the hand went lower, ghosting over my abdomen. His forehead pressed against mine, lips brushing close, heat trembling between us.

"You don't know what you're asking for," he rasped, sounding unsure of himself.

"I do."

"Emily..."

That did it. My words snapped the last shred of resistance. He pressed into me, hot and hard against my thigh. I mirrored it, shifting under him.

The beginning of something we both feared, but needed.

Something I couldn't take back... but didn't want to.

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