Page 39 of The Plunge

Chapter 18

Libby

I know we can't stay and play house in this little cabin forever. I know, and he knows.

We've developed a routine, something that gets us through the day and keeps us sane during testing time. Things have changed ever since we had sex that first evening. There was always that tension between us, that pull toward each other. The way he treated me played with my mind. It's obvious he cares about me and that my well-being is a priority to him even though I bear the name of a family he's been paid to kill. Maybe that's why he's kept his distance during the first few days, avoiding my questions, avoiding my eyes, even avoiding my presence after he'd saved me from life-threatening danger.

He was trying to decide what to do with me. He didn't know whether he should let me live. Keane doesn't have to tell me that. I could see it all in his face, in the way he looked at me, and in the crease that appeared between his eyebrows every time I talked to him.

Has he made his decision now? His demeanor toward me has changed ever since that glorious sex we shared. My arm was hurting when I woke up the next morning, but instead of taking another pill, I decided to sneak outside and catch the sunrise while slowly working through the pain as I moved my arm. I'm tired of being crippled and weak. It's time for my body to understand that I'm done resting and ready to face what lies ahead.

Whatever that may be.

With each day that passes, Keane and I grow closer together, sharing little anecdotes from our lives, laughing together, kissing and playing together. We have had sex every single day, sometimes more than once. It's become like a drug to me, a remedy that I crave more than the painkillers to make me forget my ongoing agony. I hate how slowly my shoulder is recovering, and I'm tired of being in constant pain. The painkillers Keane gives me are helping a little, but they don't comfort me as much as being with him does. When he's inside me, when our bodies are pressed against each other, skin against skin, the warmth of his strong body radiating like a healing light—that's the only time I'm at ease.

But I know it can't last. We're living an illusion. And despite everything, I still can't know for sure that he will let me live.

We went for a little walk yesterday, something I'm sure he wouldn't suggest if he thought someone could find us up here. It felt so good to be outside for longer than a few minutes, to move, to be able to do something as mundane as walking through the fields, watching the sunset, and talking.

But we were always careful, both of us. I have no idea what his plans are, and I don't dare ask because I'm afraid of the answer.

All I have is my own puddle of wild thoughts torturing me as I sit idly on a bench outside the house with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders as I let the morning sun warm my face. It's still early, and my shoulder is throbbing angrily from my little workout as it does every morning. But I can feel it getting better. Keane has been helping me change the bandages every day, and every single day, the wound looks a little better, despite my overzealous attempts to speed up the return of my mobility.

Keane repeatedly warns me not to overdo it, his eyebrows arched with concern and affection.

I can't make sense of this man. He has done so much to me, good and bad. He sprung from the darkness, and maybe he is the darkness I've feared all my life. He told me a truth about my family that I've always sensed was tucked away in a dark corner where I wouldn't have to see it.

He made me look. He made me face a truth that I needed to learn.

But why did he do it? Why did he tell me all these things? Is it because he knows I'll be dead soon anyway? Or is it because he wants to help me leave it all behind for good? He said that the people he's working for are still looking for my uncle. They still want to see him dead, and if they knew I existed, they'd want me dead, too.

I'm too afraid to inquire about the state of play. Have they found my uncle? Is he already dead? Would Keane tell me if he knew? And did Keane tell them about me? Are we just waiting out here for them to come because he can't kill me himself?

Is all this a lie? Or can I trust the affection I want to see in his eyes every time he looks at me? The gentle way he touches me, his greedy kisses, his passionate lovemaking, and the way he stares at me dreamily after yet another joint climax?

Can a person really fake all that?

I shudder at the thought. I don't want to think about it. I want to continue living this illusion here with him in this lovely area and this cute little house that has become our own in a way.

I want to be here, right now, at this moment, because everything else scares me. The past is filled with bleak horror and betrayal, and the future nothing but uncertainty. What kind of life would I even return to if Keane decided to let me go? I had no plan when I came back to the city. I left my little apartment in California behind, locking the door without knowing when I would return and under what circumstances. My family has never provided any emotional support for me, but I was taken care of financially. It always felt like a bribe to me, though, as if they were paying me to stay away and keep my mouth shut. I've been given a monthly allowance ever since the day they pushed me away, and I knew the payments would continue as long as I needed them. Money has never been an issue to the Abbotts, and the amount wired to my account every month resembles nothing but peanuts compared to other expenses that are seen as normal.

I was facing a purposeless life with no financial worries, no goals, and no affection.

How could I ever return to that? How would I cope with all that has happened without having Keane at my side? If he has a plan, does he consider me as a part of it?

I know the only way to find out is to ask him. I know I can't pretend that these questions aren't nagging at me forever.

If only it wasn't for this agonizing fear.

"Libby!"

His voice tears me out of my dwelling. I jerk up from the bench, clenching the protective blanket as Keane darts through the door.

He's fully dressed in dark jeans and a thick sweater, topped with his leather jacket.

And he looks worried. No, more than worried. Scared. His eyes are wide, and his movements hasty as he gestures toward me.

"We have to go!"

---