Page 126 of My Lovely Tragedy
“Good, my love. Hold onto that.”
* * *
For the firsttime in weeks, I’m showering alone and without the weight of my shackles. I scrub at my skin furiously, ridding myself of my dried cum. And Tobias’s. And his fuckingsmell.
“Fuck!” I scream, burning my skin with the friction, leaving bruised welts in the path of the cloth against my groin. His scent is all around me. In the fucking soaps, the washcloth. Seeped into the fuckingwalls.
I slam my palm down onto the edge of the tub as my knees buckle. And I swear I’m screaming, but I can’t hear anything through the pounding rush in my ears. The crack in my sternum—a deep, irreparable fissure.
My verysoulhas been ripped from my core, leaving a wound the size of my captor, weeping and oozing my lifeblood. Spilling out and down the drain.
Gone.
It takes a while for my mind to come back to me, and when it does, it’s fragmented. Fastened together with hastily placed sutures. Just secure enough to get me to where I need to go—and then I can let it all fall apart.
Away from him and this life he gave me.
The fucking bastard.
After dressing in the clothes—his clothes—I made him give me, I thought I had sealed my resolve. But then, I open the door, and there he fucking is, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets, justlookingat me.
“Were you fucking spying on me?” I snarl as I shove past him without a cursory glance.
“No more than usual.”
I huff, a retort teetering on the tip of my tongue, but I hold it back. Fuck, I’m so, so angry. But honestly, I don’t want to fight with him. Being angry with him takes so much out of me, and I just…I don’t have anything left.
“I made you breakfast,” he says behind me. My eyes flicker up to the clock. Eleven twenty-one A.M. Huh. The exact time I was born. Weird.
I drag my gaze away to the display on the counter. Two plates, billowing steam, each with their own set of cutlery and a mug filled with coffee. I take a seat in my usual spot and take a sip, made just how I like it. Overly sweet and tasting of French vanilla. Tobias presses in beside me, and I resist the urge to lean against him for a second before giving in and dropping my head to his shoulder.
He stiffens for a moment before his muscles lose tension, and he leans a bit closer to me. “French toast,” I say, staring down at the food in front of me.
“Nothing fancy.”
“You made it look fancy.”
“Don’t I always?”
I snort as I cut the custard-soaked bread with my fork and swipe it through his fancy maple syrup. My stomach rolls with the mere thought of having to digest food. But Tobias made it, and he wants me to eat, so that’s what I do.
I eat every last bite until only traces of syrup remain on the dark plate. Tobias silently refills my coffee, leaving my side only to fill my cup the rest of the way with creamer before taking residence at my side again.
He doesn’t say a word, comfortable in the quietude while I suffocate in it.
It feels as if no time has passed before he’s pulling away with a resigned sigh, then swallows the last bit of his third cup of coffee.
Mine sits cold and untouched and halfway gone. I grip the handle and swirl it around, watching the cream-colored liquid slosh up the sides and spill onto the counter beneath. I feel Tobias’s eyes on me, but I don’t meet his gaze. I can’t—because I know the moment I try, he’ll keep those garnet irises from me like he’s withholding some grand fucking secret he can’t release.
His footsteps retreat, leaving me cold and vacant in my own little bubble. The hands on the clock haven’t moved, and yet, it’s nearly one o’clock. I blink, pull in a breath, and then down the rest of my ice-cold coffee, nearly gagging as the thick sludge makes its way down my throat.
The crack of the ceramic against the counter makes me start, and then, I hear Tobias’s footsteps. Moving closer, becoming more defined. He’s holding something. It draws my focus, the way his spindly fingers curl around it, the shape of it.
He holds it up for me to see as he stands before me, ever devout. “I want you to take this with you.” My eyes flicker between his phone and his fuckingface.My reflection in his lens—which are perched on his nose—his facial hair, which also looks so fuckingsoft—because it is. His lips, pinched as tightly as his eyes. Crow’s feet sharper than ever.
“Your phone?” I ask.
“Yes.” He nods and reaches down to grab my hand. Pulling it between us, he places his phone against my opened palm, and then closes my fingers around it. Keeping his hand against mine, he looks up, andfuck…
