Page 10 of Misery
"What's your occupation?"
"Right now? Keeping you breathing." He swings onto the bike. The leather creaks. "Get on."
I hesitate.
This feels like a line I can't uncross.
Once I get on that bike, something changes.
Something shifts.
But my phone—in his pocket—buzzes again. And again. Insistent. Threatening.
I put on the helmet, and it smells like him inside.
Pine and leather and something wild. I climb on behind him. My arms go around his waist. He's solid. Warm. Real in a way that makes me realize how disconnected I've felt.
He tenses when I touch him, then relaxes. Like he's accepting something.
"Hold on tight," he says. "Taking the long way."
"Why—"
I almost don’t notice the movement in the trees.
Like shadows that shouldn't exist, shapes that look like people. Watching. Waiting.
Oskar sees them.
I feel his body coil.
Ready for a fight.
Always ready.
But he just revs the engine.
Loud. Aggressive.
I can’t tell if it’s a warning, a promise, or both.
My phone buzzes. He pulls it out. Shows me the screen.
Too late, little artist. We're already coming.
I expect tension. Worry. Fear, maybe.
Instead, he laughs. Dark and violent. The sound sends chills down my spine.
"Let them come," he says quietly. Voice carries over the engine. "They'll find out what happens when they threaten what'smine."
Mine?
I'm not his. I'm not anyone's.
I'm broken pieces held together by stubbornness and scar tissue.
But the way he says it—certain, possessive, final—makes something in my chest tighten.
