Page 195 of His Pretty Little Duet

They vanish into the fog's thick depths.

The car is still and silent again.

I look down at my curled fingers—still clutching, clutching at nothing, at everything, at his shirt, at reality, the past and the present—as they vibrate violently. “Make them stop curling,” I whisper, staring at my hands. “They won’t stop.”

The car slows down. Clay reaches over the seat, unbuckles me, and hauls me across the console to kneel either side of his body. My hands lookstrange.

“We need to get away from the campsite, sweet girl. Listen to me.” He cups my cheeks with firm authority, forcing me to look at him and focus on his intent blue gaze. His actions offer me a sense of affection, while the hollow depth within his stare forces chills up my spine. He’s the boss right now. Not Sir or Clay. “This is the adrenaline,” he continues methodically. “All you need to do is breathe. That is all your body needs. Can you do that for me, little deer?”

I nod with his hands cradling my face. “Yes.”

“Good girl.”

He grips my waist, slides me to my seat, and buckles me in before setting off down the road again. Then a hole of normality appears ahead, a break in the forest tunnel, the twinkling of city lights, the end of it…

The smoke holds us to the scene a moment longer, drawing it out, with a large demonic reach until we break through, the grey clouds separating over the bonnet, ripping us from the forest’s grasping fingers.

The clear air circles us, and we’re out.

And I don’t know how to feel.

Fawn

Just breathe.

He has my eyes.

Rather, I have his.

Just breathe.

Breathing—definitely breathing—I stare out the tinted window of the Chrysler. The national park, the bodies, the fast-forwarded world, a distant orange landscape in the rear-view mirror. But…Dustin Nerrock’seyes came into the clear with me, reflect at me in the glass.

My dad’s eyes.

I can’t ignore that the man killed tonight shared my blood—not with those eyes. Entirely a different colour to my blue and green, but the position, the shape… I can't pretend he was merely a stranger.

I want to care more about him…

Guilt bleeds through my clearing confusion.

Guilt that I’m not grieving him.

Guilt that I want to.

Guilt that I defied Clay.

And guilt that I’d do it again.

As Clay navigates the streets of Connolly, his icy mien has not wavered or relented. Is he rolling the wordbetrayalover in his mind? From me. From Max. Even from Xander.

“Sir?” I think I say aloud.

But maybe I didn’t, as silence is his answer. Loud breath shudders from me.

We drive between the white gates to the estate, and the vision of a pregnant blonde girl standing at the intercom only months earlier comes to me unbidden. She worries her bottom lip. Twists her hair around her finger. And imagines what that man might look like… Now she knows.

I wish I cared more…

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