Page 97 of Ruthless Regret

His eyes, when they meet mine, are wild, unfocused. For a moment, I see the caged animal he must have been in prison, dangerous and unpredictable.

"What are you doing here?" His voice is a low growl that sends a shiver of alarm down my spine.

I swallow hard, second guessing my decision to walk in, but the thought of going back to my room alone, of facing the darkness and my fears, stops me from turning and fleeing.

"I ... I can't be alone tonight." I hate how vulnerable I sound. "I can’t stop thinking about the things we found out today. I know I’m going to dream."

His eyes narrow, searching my face. The silence stretches between us, and then he moves, stepping out of the tub with a grace that belies his size.

"Ashley ..." he starts, his voice rough.

"Please, Zain." I don’t want to hear his rejection. "I'm not asking for anything. I just ... I don't want to be alone."

He stares at me for a long moment, and I can almost see the internal struggle playing out behind his eyes. Without a word, he walks past me, out of the bathroom. For a heart-stopping moment, I think he's leaving me there. But then I hear his footsteps pause in the hallway.

"Are you coming?" he calls back, his voice carefully neutral.

Relief floods through me, and I follow him to my room. When we reach the bed, I stand there. I don’t know what to do, what to say.

Maybe I should tell him it doesn’t matter, and just not sleep tonight.

Zain solves my dilemma by lying down on top of the covers.

I climb onto the bed, and draw the sheets up over my legs, and we lie there in the dark, not touching, barely breathing. I’m hyper-aware of Zain's presence beside me.

I want to speak, to say something,anythingto break this unbearable tension. But what can I possibly say to the man whose life I destroyed? To the man who, just days ago, I feared more than anything?

Minutes tick by, feeling like hours. Every creak of the house, every rustle of the sheets sounds impossibly loud, and I find myself straining to hear any noise from outside, any sign that we might not be as alone as we think.

"Zain?" I whisper finally, unable to bear the silence any longer.

"Hmm?" His response is noncommittal, guarded.

I take a deep breath, lick my lips and gather my courage. "Can I ask you something?"

There's a long pause before he answers. "Depends."

I turn on my side to face him. I can barely make out his profile in the darkness. "What ... What was it really like? In prison, I mean."

The question hangs in the air between us.

I’ve gone too far. I’ve crossed a line. I shouldn’t have asked.

But then Zain lets out a long, slow breath.

"It was hell." His voice is low and rough. "Every day was a fight to survive, to keep some part of myself intact." He falls silent.

I hold my breath, afraid that if I move or speak, he'll stop. But after a moment, he continues.

"The noise never stops. Even at night, there's always something. Someone crying, or fighting, or just ... existing. And the smell ..." He breaks off, and the mattress bounces as he moves. I think he might be shaking his head. "You never get used to it. The stink of too many bodies crammed into too small a space."

His words paint a vivid picture, one that makes my stomach churn with guilt.

"How did you cope?" I ask softly.

He lets out a bitter laugh. "I didn't, not really. I got angry. So fucking angry. It was the only thing that kept me going some days. The thought that one day I'd get out and make you pay."

The words twist like a knife. I force myself to stay still, to keep listening.

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