The door slams shut behind us, leaving an echo that feels like a point of no return.
It snaps Tom out of his trance, and suddenly, he’s the one dragging me along by the wrist.
Snow crunches under his boots as he storms ahead, leaving me scrambling to keep up.
“Tom, calm down! Please, you’re hurting me.”
His face burns crimson, fingernails biting into my skin.
This isn’t him. It’s the same switch that flipped at SeaBreeze, and I know from that night nothing I say will reach him until the anger burns itself out.
“Sapphire, please.” My voice breaks. “I’m sorry, baby. Please don’t do this. Just stop for a second. Let me explain.”
Tears sting my eyes and I hate that I’m crying.
The air is so cold it burns, yet my face feels hot from the rivers of tears streaming down my cheeks.
I feel him slipping.
No, I can feel us slipping. And I don’t know what I need to do to keep us together. So for now I don’t mind his hand on my wrist, even if it hurts. At least he’s holding me, because not holding me would hurt so much more.
We reach the car and split. I get in without a word. My wrist is throbbing, but right now, the last thing I want is to set him off.
We disappear into the forest, tires screeching as we race for the gate.
It opens automatically this time.
The glowing meadows in the distance are proof the real world still exists. The sun breaks through the heavy gray clouds. I lift my hand to the sky, shading my eyes from the light. Its warmth touches my damp cheeks, drying my tears as we leave Heatherfell behind.
I want to believe I’m not as alone as I feel in this moment. That the sun breaking through the clouds is Paul’s way of comforting me, wiping away my tears and whispering it’ll be alright.
God. I hate myself.
Whenever things go to hell, my thoughts go straight to Paul. Some part of me has never stopped wanting him.
This isn’t fair to Tom. I’ve failed us in every possible way. I don’t deserve him, not when I’m crying over someone else.
The only sound is the engine.
We drive for at least half an hour before the highway appears. Tom still hasn’t spoken. His eyes stay fixed on the road, hands tight around the wheel. He drives fast, but never over the limit.
I don’t know where we’re going, but the way his fingers are clamping the wheel makes one thing clear:
Pineapple fucking cookie.
Chapter fifty-four
Tom
The chaos in my head won’t quit, thoughts smashing into each other like I’m slappings black and shades of gray paint across a white canvas.
Jay’s smug face. His twisted charade. The way he’d said what he said like it was all a fucking game to him. I hate that he always knows fucking everything.
And now, so do I.
Joshua Fennbrae, son of Alistair Fennbrae. It’s just a name. But knowing it’s Yosh’s name? That lands like a punch to the gut.
And the others…oh god, the others.
