Strays

Chapter 34

Chapter Thirty-Four

Crawling into bed felt a lot like a slow retreat from battle.

My whole body ached with exhaustion. I could feel every last bruise scattered the length of my arms and along my sides, streaked across my chest and between my thighs. Blood crusted on my lips. The taste of him lingered in my mouth like evidence at a crime scene, taunting my reflection in the bathroom mirror and the denial I'd seen burning in my eyes. That I felt deep in my bones.

What are you going to blame it on this time, Juliet?

My hand curled around the mattress, anchoring me to my usual spot at the edge of the bed. I faced the wall with my jaw locked resolutely, like I could force myself to forget that the last hour had ever happened. Like my foot hadn't slipped on the tight rope and sent me hurtling to the ground.

I listened to Michael moving around the room, following his usual routine: collecting the phones, checking for messages, plugging them in to charge. But this time, there was no rustle of clothing; only the slight dip in the bed as he sat down and the sudden spike in my heart rate as my body threatened to roll toward the centre.

I heard him sigh.

A strange feeling squeezed my chest. Something a lot like fear. Like panic. It coursed through my veins, making my blood sing with the urge to run — but I couldn't move. All I could do was lie completely, perfectly still as he slid under the covers, my body tense and my breath caught in my throat, unable to escape.

I waited for the eventual, "What the fuck?"

I remembered the way he'd looked at me the first time we fucked: the sheer rage that transformed his face, his eyes stormy and incandescent with hate. The condemnation in his voice as he spat, "He wants you to whore yourself out to whoever the fuck will take you?" and later, his plea for me to trust him, to tell him the truth, and the defeated way he'd muttered, "I thought so."

I waited for the, "Why?"

But instead of talking, all he did was reach for me. His hand slid over my hip, warm and sure, and I flinched away instinctively. He ignored me, his grip tightening as he hauled me back across the bed and into the circle of his arms. He slung one arm over my chest, locking me in place before I could even attempt to escape, and when I opened my mouth to protest he let out a low growl, the sound rumbling through his ribcage. "Go to sleep, J."

Anger bristled to life beneath the surface but I pressed my lips together, swallowing back my protests and forcing myself to relax. I told myself it was just another one of his mind games, another way to trick me into spilling the truth.

Another way to fuck with my head.

But as his breathing evened out and his heartbeat slowed to a gentle thump beneath my ear, I found myself playing a dangerous game. A game where I let myself lie there, surrounded by his scent and the weight of his arms around me, and pretended that it wasn't an elaborate trap designed to hold me prisoner. I pretended that I didn't hate him, that I didn't hate who he'd turned me into, who he'd forced me to become. I pretended that the war had never happened and I was fifteen again, lying in bed with my best friend because he cared about me, too.

________________

I was still awake when a knock sounded on the door hours later.

I disentangled myself from Michael as carefully as I could manage, freezing for a moment when he mumbled something under his breath. I tensed, waiting for his eyes to flicker open — but he just rolled over onto my side of the bed, his face creasing in a frown.