Page 122 of Ensnared

WhenIturn, stomach dipping,Domis ducking to pick up the pocketknife.Mypocketknife.

“No.”

Myvoice is barely audible, and he’s scooped up the bloody, awful thing beforeIcan stop him.

“Here.”

Istumble back a step intoBeau. “Idon’t want it.”

Isound panicked, and after my vomiting fit, my throat is raw and sore.Domstops and studies me, andIcringe away from that knowing stare.

Hetucks the little knife behind his belt and lifts his hands.

Tearsprick my eyes again, andIswallow twice, trying to keep it together.Beau’shand moves to the middle of my back, and he nudges me.

“Comeon now, let’s get cleaned up, have something to eat.You’llfeel better after some food.”

Theway it’s seething right now,I’msureI’llbring up anything thatItry to force down butIjust nod and let him lead me through the forest.Ifeel golden eyes on my back and try not to let my shoulders hunch.Thisis exactly what they wanted to avoid.Memeddling in thingsIshouldn’t be meddling in.Domshould be saying “Itold you so” right now.TheleastIcan do is actually listen to them, the wayIshould have done in the first place.

Inever should have leftBristlebrook.

What’swrong with being pampered and coddled, really?Ifit makes them happy, and it meansI’mnot doing...this... isn’t that better?

What’sthe point of having choices ifIjust keep making the wrong ones?

Whenwe reach the water,Beaustops.Istare blankly at the scene.Thesun beats down between the trees, sparkling over the clear water.Itwhispers and burbles around the stones and branches, running in a playful path through the greenery.Thegrass is soft and thick, almost mossy, and the loamy earth has a kind, welcoming give under my feet.Myteary vision gives the scene a hazy glow, the details blurring into each other prettily.

Itconfuses me.Ifeel like a whole day must have passed, a century, but it’s only been a few hours.It’snot right.Itshould be night, all black and shadows, bare tree limbs catching and tearing at my clothes.

Imust have stared too long, becauseBeau’shand wraps around my wrist, then his fingers skate down to twine with my bloody ones.

Ilook up at him, and his face is throat-closingly soft.

“Oh, darlin’,I’mso sorry,” he murmurs.Nottaking his eyes off me, he raises his voice. “Dom...”

There’sa beat of silence, thenDomsays in a low voice, “Iknow.Sheneeds it.”

Acrush of tiredness, of sadness, squeezes me.Needswhat?

Beaustrokes the pad of his thumb over my hand in slow, soothing motions. “Eden, sometimes we use kink as a way of processing things.Tohelp get feelings out in the open.”

He’sso unusually grave thatIforce myself to pay attention to him.Whyis he talking about kink?Whyon earth would he be talking about itnow?

“Eden,DomandI... we want to help you.Willyou let us do that?”

Toprocess things?Itry to keep up.Mymind floats back to my talk withDombefore all of this mess, about how the two of them set a scene to work throughBeau’sissues, but the memory just makes my stomach sink further.

“Areyou—”Ihave to swallow; my throat is so raw and dry. “Areyou still mad at me?”Iwhisper.

Beau’sexpression breaks, and his eyes sink closed.Iwatch hisAdam’sapple bob as he swallows too.Finally, his eyes drift open, and he whispers back, “No, darlin’,I’mnot mad.”

“Then, what...”

“Doyou trust us?” he asks again. “Tomake you feel better?Youcan stop it at any time.”

We’reso close that our breaths mix, match, until we’re breathing together.Hiseyes are the woods that kept me safe for years, steady streams and hidden nooks.

“Itrust you with everything,”Itell him.

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