“What is it?” he asked, turning to me. We were so close, leaning on each other now, halfway gone already.
There was just one thing niggling at me. Sticking in my mind from our time in the prison. It was clear to me now he’d planned everything to the letter to get to me, get power over me and steal me away, but just one thing. “Randal. Did you send him to hurt me?”
Adrian exhaled, rough and jaw tensing. He tried to move away from me, but I didn’t let him. I’d probably tumble down the stairs without his semi-sturdiness holding me up.
“Just tell me. We’re beyond it all now, Adrian. Did you send him to die? Or to hurt me? I haven’t figured it out.”
So quiet, he spoke, “I don’t know.” His eyes blazed as they caught mine. “You were rooting under my skin, Karner, and I hated it. Something had to give.”
“You don’t know,” I repeated, letting it sink in.
He nodded. “Something had to give.”
I sighed, beaten. “Fine.” Nothing more to say on the matter. At this point, it was one of the lesser things he’d done to me. It felt like another world, another time, like Randal might never even have existed. Just a proxy for the first bites of pain Adrian gave me.
We didn’t say another word to each other as we moved into the apartment, focused only on each next step.
We showered together, utilitarian in how we washed each other’s skin. Adrian changed the bandages on my pussy, telling me it looked like it was healing well.
Then we fell asleep in his stained bed, under the sheets, curled up together, fast unconscious.
Thirty-Two
Adrian
For weeks, we stayed like that, not telling each other anything, not admitting any feelings. It was like a bubble; time didn’t drift on, opinions didn’t matter.
None of the things we’d done to each other counted; nothing mattered at all apart from existing, drifting through each day far from the outside world. Penelope and I didn’t even look at each other, acknowledge what a sick, fucked up world we’d created together.
We tried to heal, mind and body. On our own, but together. We ate all the food in my kitchen, slept and stayed silent. Dishes stacked up, grime layered over everything, silence reigned through us.
For over two weeks, we didn’t say a word to each other, but we spent not a moment apart. Our bubble was tight, stretching no more than a few feet, like ifeither of us stretched it too far, it would burst and all that shit could flood back in.
Penelope treated her pussy once a day, pulling away the bandages in front of a mirror to check on the wounds, dabbing antiseptic where she needed to. I never helped, watched her work, but offered no hand. She was more healed each time, and it didn’t piss me off like it should.
I stopped responding to anything outside of my body. Switched my cell off so no messages would come through, so I wouldn’t know what was happening with the prison or with the hunt for Penelope. No contact from my mother, the warden, even Penny’s sister.
A message from Lacey asking if anything had progressed in finding her sister waited for me when I turned my cell off.
I said nothing. To no one.
As far as anyone else was aware, I was missing now too. Life didn’t exist outside of these walls. Only this sick bubble Penny and I resided in.
Because as soon as I let it, I would have to confront the fact that I was letting her live, that I was goingagainst all my planning, all my goals, just to spend more time with her. With this sickness, this dark, feral cunt who had burrowed herself into my skin. My soul.
But I wanted to figure this shit out, needed to. No. If I killed her now, it would be unfinished. An incompletion.
So, together, we existed, waiting for the moment to come when we were ready to take the next step.
For as long as we could, we just survived, fed our bodies with the little food I had, washed our damaged flesh and healed, rested side by side.
But over the last few days, it had started shifting, changing, my little killer pulling away again, turning from me as we slept, shutting the door when she showered. And when I woke on my own, her side of the bed cold, I knew this day would be the one that was different.
I dressed in some sweats and went hunting. I didn’t have to go far. She was in my living room, a pile of photos around her, scattered, legs crossed, brow furrowed as she studied my memories.
“Hello,” she said, her voice husky, gruff from under-use. She coughed and tried again. “Hello, Adrian.”
I cleared my throat before speaking. “Penelope.” I nodded to her in question, my eyes lingering over the photos she’d obviously gone digging for. “What are you doing?”
