Page 71 of When Death Whispers

I scrub a hand down my face, dragging in a sharp breath that does nothing to calm me.

God, I fucked this up.

I let my emotions talk before my brain had time to catch up. Let my anger speak louder than my compassion. And she thinks I’m ashamed of her now. She thinks I looked at her and saw something broken.

But that’s not it. That’s not it at all.

What I saw was someone drowning in guilt for something she didn’t ask for.

Someone bleeding internally while trying to hold everyone else together.

Someone who keeps giving her body and her breath and her strength, just to survive one more day, one more night.

And I love her for that.

Even if she never lets me say it.

Even if she never wants to hear it.

27

I crankthe hot water on with more force than necessary, like the metal handle is to blame for everything unraveling, nearly yanking it out of the wall. I don’t care. I need heat—scalding, blistering, punishing.

Steam floods the bathroom instantly, curling around me like smoke from something burning. Maybe it’s me.

I step under the spray and flinch. It hurts—exactly how I want it to.

My anger simmers just beneath my skin, hot and volatile, like a teapot on the verge of screaming.

You’re so stupid, Parker.

For letting Hudson in. For thinking he could handle this. For hoping he’d still look at me the same after what I did.

Somewhere along the line, I let myself believe he saw me. All of me. That he accepted the fear and the darkness. That he could weather my monsters.

That he could stay, despite how hard I tried to push him away.

But he didn’t. Not really. He stayed as long as I was something he could protect.

The second he couldn’t control the story?—

The second I wasn’t his to save?—

He looked at me like I was broken. I scrub a hand down my face, my throat tight.

God, I can’t decide what hurts more—his judgment, or the fact that it hurts at all. Because Icarewhat he thinks of me.

The realization settles deep, cold and cutting.

I let him get too close.

I shake my head, furious at myself, furious athim. I let myself forget why I kept everyone at arm’s length. Well, I sure as shit remember now.

Fuck friendships. Fuck attachments. Fuck all of it.

I slam the bottle of body wash against the wall, liquid splattering across the tiles. I lather my skin like I can scrape it all off. The bruises. The bite marks. The pleasure.

Like I can erase what I let happen.

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