Page 95 of Endgame
I woke up here after passing out at breakfast earlier.
When I came to, my first instinct was to run to the door and test the handle. Years of being locked up by my parents has conditioned me to do so.
The door wasn’t locked. I was free to leave the room.
I didn’t want to. Couldn’t bear the thought of meeting Everett head-on just yet, as much as I itched to be near him.
And while I didn’t see him, I felt him.
All day, I’ve been surrounded by him, by the memories, by the objects he uses to stake his claim. I haven’t been alone, not really.
Especially not when he’s the one who’s brought me my meals, both lunch and dinner. I know it’s him. Whoever knocks never lingers, never says a word. Rylee or Elena would’ve greeted me, offered something. Anything.
Everett, though…
I sigh. Why won’t he come to our room?
Hours of turning him over in my mind, and I still can’t make sense of it. Why the man so intent on punishing me leavesmy door unlocked. Why he bothers bringing me food but then leaves. Why he isn’t here, tormenting me the way he swore he would.
It doesn’t feel like mercy. I hate it. I hate his absence.
Darkness surrounds me and fuck, I’m tired, disappointed, and lonelier than I’ve ever been, curled beneath the covers in one of his shirts.
Where is he?
I sit up, about to go to him, before my sadness sinks deeper. My chin dips, shoulders slumping. I scold myself for remembering how he saved me from my parents.
But no matter how many times I tell myself that I’m an idiot, the longing for him doesn’t go away.
Footfalls in the hall snap me out of it.
The door pushes open.
My heart swoops. Everett’s here, standing in the doorway, looking every bit as dark and intense as he was that morning.
I reach for the lamp and switch it on, and it bathes the room in a warm light.
Words escape me.
Needing his kindness shouldn’t make me feel like I’m boiling from the inside.
He can never know that I’ve missed him. Ever.
“You’re up,” he says almost to himself. There’s longing in it. Regret.
Or I’m imagining things.
Impatience gets the better of me, which is why, out of everything I could’ve started with—likeI missed youorPlease don’t leave me again—what slips out is a clipped, “Where have you been?”
In that infuriating silence of his, he comes to the bed and unfastens my collar. His hands are warm and steady. The weight of his gaze drags across my skin until my chest feels tight.
I hold my breath as he presses me onto my stomach, the shift rough but careful. The plug is gone a second later, discarded in the bathroom’s wastebasket, but the phantom ache of it lingers.
When he returns, naked now, my throat works, but nothing comes out beyond a strangled moan. I can’t help it, he’s so beautiful.
He says nothing, but there’s no hesitation in him. His hands claim me, sliding over my body as he peels his shirt off my body.
Then I let him guide me by the small of my back toward the bathroom where the steam is waiting. His grip is unrelenting, and I’m furious at myself for the shiver of relief that comes when he showers me.
