Page 132 of The Restoration Program
Ryan’s voice curled over her like venomous honey. “Don’t cry, babe. You’re okay.”
She sank on her elbows and buried her face in her hands, sobbing harder. His slick fingers nudged under her middle to take her back into his grasp.
“No,” she moaned, kneeing the side of his hand feebly.
“Shh, you’re okay, you’re okay,” he said with the tone of a parent consoling a fallen toddler. He hugged her to his collarbone and rubbed soothing circles on her back. “What can I do for you, huh?” His tone was tender, like the loving version of him had fought off the monstrous part. “It’s your turn, babe. Come on, tell me.”
The pulse of his heartbeat thudded against her legs. His satisfied breaths pushed against her body.
A delicate thread snapped inside her. She shoved him, clawing and kicking though she was no match against even one of his hands.
“D-don’t touch me.” She didn’t scream—couldn’t. There wasn’t enough breath left in her body.
“Don’t be like that,” he coaxed, lifting her higher to kiss her cheek.
She slapped him. It couldn’t have felt like more than walking into a low-hanging twig, but he still jolted. He held her away to look her in the eye, jaw ticking.
His tone went cold. “Nicki—”
“I hate you.”
Her voice choked off. Fresh tears filled her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks, blessedly fracturing her view of him as his expression faltered and turned to stone.
“Fine. I give up,” he muttered.
For a split second, she feared his grip would tighten and splinter her bones. Instead, he tossed her back onto the mattress and knocked the wind out of her. She sat up and shuffled away from him, but he had no interest in chasing her.
The bed rattled as he climbed off. He stalked away, slamming the lights on in the living room. His thudding footsteps trailed all the way to the kitchen, followed by the sound of him pouring a drink.
Nicole hugged her knees and stared at a blank spot on the wall as a frigid numbness rolled through her body.
DAY ONE HUNDRED SIXTY-ONE
All the breath in her lungs seized when the bed creaked from the other room. Nicole stood up on the coffee table and squared her shoulders, trembling. She prayed that Ryan was just rolling over in his sleep again.
But no, he was awake.
She reached into her jacket pocket and gripped the handle of a steak knife she had stowed away. The weapon was a meager security blanket, but after what Ryan pulled last night, some semblance of defense was better than nothing.
He shuffled out of the bedroom, yawning. Any other morning, she might have been endeared by his bedhead and the way he rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. She’d often teased him about how unfair it was that he looked so good first thing in the morning.
He stopped short when he spotted her. Grogginess vanished as he stared at the silky party favor bag that sat beside her. It was stuffed with her clothes and toiletries, the drawstring tied off in a tidy bow. His eyes narrowed at her laptop behind her, still open to a thread of messages.
“Good morning,” Nicole greeted, robotic.
“What’s all this about?”
“Darlene’s on her way. I’ll be staying with her for a while. My biometrics don’t work on the lock anymore, so give me the smart key.”
She dug her heels into the tabletop and willed herself not to quake as Ryan moved closer. Her whole body was sore and tense. She’d remained coiled like a spring all night on the table, only dozing minutes at a time between exhausting fits of tears. A part of her wondered if she had innately lost the ability to relax at all. Just like that. Maybe he had broken something in her permanently last night.
Ryan stopped a few feet away, next to the kitchen barstools when she backpedaled from his nearness. Nicole didn’t look at his face long enough to tell if he was apologetic or annoyed by this.
“You’re not serious,” he said. “Nicki, let’s talk. Okay? Fuck, I didn’t mean…”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“Then, tomorrow night—”
