Page 4 of Always A Villain
All I could see was him falling—slipping right throughmy fingers—then gone, smashed into the rocks below. I felt it all over again. Helplessness. Terror. The sick twist of guilt. I couldn’t save him. And for one horrible fucking second, I thought I couldn’t save her either.
My hands clench around the steering wheel, knuckles white.
That fear, that paralyzing, breath-stealing fear—never thought I’d feel that again. But there it was, back to choke me, drown me with a vengeance. And now, driving, watching her sleep, that same ache, that same raw fear, still hasn’t let go. I care about her. More than I should. More than I’m fucking allowed to.
Feelings are a fucking liability. I buried them long ago, and they’ve got no place here. No place in me. Every emotion is just one more way to fuck up, one more thing that could get me—and her—killed. I know better. Ishouldknow better.
My phone rings, pulling me out of my head. I hit the mute button before the sound can wake her, but I'm too slow. She stirs, eyes fluttering open. Fuck.
“Axe?” Her voice is soft. Dazed, drugged.
“Yeah.”
“Why do you hate me?”
“What?” I grunt, trying to shake the feeling that’s creeping up inside me. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Why do you hate me?” she repeats. It’s slurred but clear enough for me to hear.
“I don’t hate you, Rory.” My jaw tightens. I don’t even know how to explain what I feel. Hell, I don’t evenwantto.
“You do…you hate me,” she mumbles, eyes slowly shutting.
“No. It’s you who hates me, little siren. Not the other way around.”
“You said you never cared,” she whispers. “That I’m just a hole to fuck. That I’m nothing to you.”
“I said a lot of things, Rory.” I was angry—at her, at myself, at the way she pulled emotions out of me I didn’t want to feel. Anger and rage, I know what to do with those. But this? Whatever the fuck this is that she stirs in me, it’s dangerous.
“Did you mean it? Is that all I am to you?”
“Rory, we’ll talk about this later.” No, we won’t.
“Tell me,” she pleads, her voice thick with desperation. I look over, her eyes glistening with tears.
“It’s not important,” I mutter and return my eyes to the road.
“It is.”
My fists clench around the steering wheel. “You’re high as hell right now. You’re barely keeping your eyes open. Why does it matter?”
“Because I need to know.”
I glance at her, anger flaring up inside me, mixing with something else.
“Why, Rory?” I snap. “Why does it matter what I think?”
Her lips tremble before she speaks. “Because…sometimes…I’m not sure if I hate you.”
“Oh, little siren,” I sigh. Reaching over, my fingers brush against her cheek. “You should hate me. I’m the worst fucking thing that’s ever happened to you.”
And maybe, deep down, that’s what I want. For her to hate me. To make it easier. Because anything other than hate,anything softer, is something I don’t know how to deal with.
Returning to the house, I carry her inside, her small frame resting easily in my arms. Her weight feels too light, too breakable, and the thought of how much worse her injuries could’ve been clenches my gut. As I lay her down on the bed, her eyes slowly open, hazy with exhaustion.
“Axe,” she says, voice muddled with sleep. “What are you doing?”
“Putting you to bed,” I grunt as I pull the covers over her. My fingers skim her wrist, and for a second, I freeze. That scar—her failed suicide attempt. I only know the story because she told the masked man. The man she confides in. The man who doesn’t even fucking talk. A wave of jealousy surges through me—fucking pathetic.
