Page 87 of His

I didn’t realize that I had drifted off into sleep until the bolt outside the door snapped open and I raised my head. My cheeks were wet with tears. I was terrified to see what was on the other side of the door, but worse than that was not knowing.

The door swung open and he walked in, still holding the knife. His hair was mussed and there was a streak of dirt on the side of his face. His pants were dusty, cobwebs lacing his ankles.

But the knife—

The knife was clean. There was no blood on the blade.

He sat down silently next to me on the bed, staring down at the knife in his lap.

“Where did you go?” I asked.

“The basement.”

The basement? He had locked me up and terrified me, all for nothing?

“Why?” I asked, my heart beating fast.

“To see what it was like. I was curious.”

“And?”

“It was dark.”

He turned, raised his eyes to me. I saw emotion in there, a stark sadness that scared me.

“Gav?”

“Dress. Come with me.”

He watched me quietly as I pulled on my clothes. Every glance of his felt like it bruised my skin. I wanted him to tie me up again. I wanted his arms around me. I wanted his touch. But he didn’t touch me, not at all.

When I was dressed, he stood up and walked out of the room, the knife hanging loosely at his side. I followed him nervously. He had always had a hand on me before, and I wondered what he had decided to do with me.

Was he leading me to the kitchen? Was he going to hurt me? Had he decided, after all this, to kill me?

Before, he had put a hand on me to guide me. Now, he walked down the stairs. I paused at the statue before following him down the steps.

“Come on,” he said, calling up to me. “Don’t be afraid.”

Those words chilled me. I came down the stairs slowly and followed him across the living room, down the hallway to the front door. He opened the door.

“Go on,” he said.

I stepped past him with my breath held. When I was in front of him, he could stab me from behind. He could slit my throat. He could—

“Kat.”

I turned around to see him standing in the doorway, his knife hanging limply from one hand.

“Gavriel?”

“I’m sorry, kitten.” His eyes were sad, so sad. It was all I could do not to run back to him, to take him in my arms, to comfort him. “Go on, now.”

“What…” my voice trailed off as I realized that he wasn’t following me out onto the porch. “What are you doing?”

“I’m letting you go.”

The words buzzed around my ears, but I didn’t comprehend what he was saying.

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