Page 123 of Wait For It

The pedals not working… the radio and lights going on and off—what if it hadn’t been a nightmare?

He spun on his heel with a wide grin, swinging the fireplace poker like it was a baseball bat. “Don’t be silly, sweetheart. Just thinking out loud. There are a lot of ways to encourage people to change their minds, don’t you think?”

I backed up a step, shaking my head. “But I did everything you said! I followed the rules!”

“What makes you think I’m talking about you? You know—” He cracked his neck and swung the poker, the air whistling from the momentum. “I actually wanted to be a baseball player as a kid.”

I stumbled over a power cord jutting out from beneath the desk but quickly regained my footing and continued backing toward the door.

“Paul, in his letter to the Corinthians, wrote, ‘But when I became a man, I put away childish things.’” Tristan swung again, this time sending a stack of papers sailing over the edge of the desk. “These athletes live like they’re gods—free to take whatever they want, whenever they want! But there’s a cost—there’s always a cost! ‘All at once, he followed her, like an ox going to the slaughter; like a deer stepping into a noose til an arrow pierces his liver, like a bird darting into a snare—little knowing it will cost him his life.’”

To him, I’d always been the exotic collectible—the rare find that was worth millions—and Tristan had just discovered the one way to ensure I stayed locked behind glass forever.

Killian.

I stilled as years of bottled-up hurt came to a head, before launching myself at him with a snarl. Tristan’s delusions had only grown stronger in my absence. He was committed to his narrative, no matter how far it was from the truth. Ashlynn’s death. My car accident. Killian. There was always going to be someone standing in his way. The ground could be littered with bodies, but as long as it furthered his kingdom, he’d gladly rule over a wasteland.

“You goddamned asshole!” I shrieked, connecting with his forearm as he brought it up to deflect my blows. Killian’s curses tumbled from lips as I raked my nails over Tristan’s skin, drawing blood to the surface. Flames danced in his eyes, making the whites appear to be glowing.

The muscles in his neck stood out like cords as he threw his head back and laughed, before dropping the poker to the floor with a clatter.

He no longer needed it.

Tristan had finally found something I was powerless against. Killian was my greatest weakness, and he knew it.

I staggered back jerkily, bringing my hands up to protect my head, pleading, “I just want to keep him safe. Please, I’ll do it, just don’t hurt him.”

“Attagirl,” he praised, stalking toward me. “In the Gospels, John states, ‘Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.’”

Pretend like you never went back to True North…

Pretend you’re safe in Killian’s arms…

Pretend you’re somewhere else…

Freedom. Safety. They’d never been anything more than illusions.

Pretend it only hurts if you let it…

Chapter Twenty-Six

Ariana

“She had not known the weight until she felt the freedom.”

-Nathaniel Hawthorne,The Scarlet Letter

The one thingI could count on when the world slipped off-axis was being left alone for days, sometimes even weeks afterward. My duties were reassigned, and all of my meals delivered up to my room. Like a mint on a pillow from one of those fancy hotels Tristan stayed in, each tray arrived with a wrapped present.

Sometimes, it was a new cross-stitch pattern or a coloring book. If Tristan had been particularly rough, I could expect a couple of pieces of jewelry. I’d never been able to determine if the gifts were sent in apology, or to buy my silence. Not that I spent much time considering it.

If I wasn’t sleeping, I was staring up at the ceiling, watching the shadows cast by both the sun and moon. I stayed in my cocoon of numbness for as long as possible, moving only when it was absolutely necessary.

Which made my current situation all the more confusing. I was on day two of recovery. By all rights, I should have been lying in bed and wallowing in my misery, undisturbed. Instead, I was inexplicably sitting on a small stool inside the ensuite bathroom, letting Morgan braid my hair.

“Hold still,” she ordered around the bobby pin between her lips. “I’m almost done.”

It was just after midnight when she snuck in and forced me into the shower. My body hadn’t even begun to stink. That usually happened around day five, when the sheets stuck to my damp skin and my hair was slick with oils.

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