Page 64 of Inevitable Destruction

He’ll make it all go away.

“I’m ready,” I rasp, meeting his gaze across the room. He stills with his arms full of things—things I can’t really make out. But it looks like a lot. He also changed his clothes, now wearing jeans and a white T-shirt.

“You’re ready?” he repeats my words, and I nod, feeling my hair pull and tug from the pressure I put into it.

I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.

What was the point in fighting for so long when it was always going to end this way?

“I’m tired. So tired of fighting it. Just do it so I can have the relief. So I can have a break from being strong.” My eyes burn with unshed tears. I’ve never been so honest in my life, not even with myself. I didn’t expect it to hurt so bad, but who better to tell than the man who wants the same thing I do, for whatever reason.

“I’m not strong, Rhett. I never have been. Pretending is the only thing I know, and I’m just tired. So, please. Please.” I’m begging in earnest now. I can feel it in my bones, down to my fucking marrow. This is the right thing to do. I’m ready to… I’m ready to die. Maybe it won’t happen right this moment, but it will eventually; this I know.

I blink away the glassy wall of tears that cover my eyes. They fall from the corners of my eyes and down my temples before absorbing into my hair. My gaze locks on the ceiling as I ingest my truth, the reality of my situation.

When I still don’t hear anything, I turn my head to the side to watch everything. He’s still standing by the door, arms full of whatever the hell he’s carrying. His brows are pinched together, and his lips are turned downwards, creating a deep scowl on his face. The deep wrinkle formed on his forehead only serves to add to the severity of it.

I swallow, unsure of what to do or say, so I just lay here, waiting for him to make the next move.

This is what he wanted, isn’t it? To make me need him—this?

After what feels like a lifetime of my skin crawling and my insides twisting, I break the silence.

“Rhett?” I ask, my voice raising at the end. I must break him out of whatever he’s contemplating because his legs suddenly start moving. They carry him to the side of the bed where I am, and he opens his arms, letting everything in them fall next to my head.

My eyes catch on the objects as they bounce around. A bag of cotton balls, a three-pack of alcohol prep pads, and a bottle of water.

Well, he certainly knows the gist of what he’s doing, at least. Though, he is still missing a few things.

“You know that’s not all you need, right?” I look at the shit he grabbed then to him. He runs his fingers through his long locks, pushing it away from his face as he looks down at me.

“What?”

“I said, you know that’s not all you need?”

“What the fuck am I forgetting?” He clenches his teeth, and I watch as his jaw gyrates back and forth rapidly. He’s still fisting his hair, tugging on the strands.

I suck in a deep breath and push myself up, moving to the headboard so I can rest back against it. Rhett’s pillows mold into my back, and I sigh as I get comfortable. Apparently, I’m going to have to help.

A chuckle breaks through my pinched lips, and I slap my hand over my mouth to block the sound, but Rhett still heard it anyway. He glares at me, his two deep-blue orbs staring into my fucking soul—eyes so cold and discerning.

He sees so fucking much of me, and I don’t even think he realizes it.

I shouldn’t have these thoughts about the man who wants to ruin my life, but I just… can’t. There’s something about him that guts me from the inside out, and I’m a fucking sucker for it.

“We’re gonna need a metal spoon—preferably the deepest one you have. Also need a lighter and, I don’t know,” I laugh, almost hysterically, “the fucking drugs and that syringe in your pocket.” I nod my head towards the notch in the front of his jeans.

Rhett continues to glare, staring right into my eyes before spinning on his bare feet and leaving the room without a sound.

With him gone and me waiting ever so fucking patiently, I push away the pain lancing through my body to look around his room after putting everything he brought on the nightstand. His room is bare for the most part, similar to mine. His bedspread is a navy blue, similar to the color of his eyes but too bright. His are darker and colder, but I don’t think there’s much in the world that can match Everett Boyd’s eyes.

The door creaks as Rhett shoulders it open to step into the room once more. He walks right up to me and hands me everything he grabbed that I asked for—except for the pills and syringe. I take each object and set them all down in their own specific spot I just made up on the flat surface of the stand.

I sit up and swing my legs over the side. It’s the craziest notion, but now with the prospect of what’s going to happen and the fact I gave myself the freedom, I feel better. More at peace.

I drag and turn the small table until it’s right in front of me. With the spoon in hand, I take the time to bend it the way I need to—so the handle curls underneath the base of the spoon and it sits with the curvature in the air, giving me the ability to heat the bottom without obstruction.

Once I’m satisfied, I place it at the end of the table, then reach for the alcohol prep pads. I take the pack of three and rip them all open, using the small, rectangular pads to wipe my hands down before I touch anything else.

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