It’s like another bullet I never saw coming, only this time it hitsme. It splits straight through my ribs and lodges somewhere catastrophic. My lungs completely forget how to work, air catching and gasping out of me. My vision blurs in a way that has nothing to do with drugs. It’s not just that he’s alive. It’s that he sounds the same, like no time has passed. Like he didn’t leave me with his blood on my hands. Like I didn’t build a grave in my chest and live inside it.
I hate that my first instinct isn’t to scream. It’s to step into him and ask him to call me that again, a name that’s only existed in memory, one I tried to bury with him.
My throat burns, but I try to speak anyway.
“You—”
My voice cracks. That’s humiliating.
I swallow the razorblades and try again.
“You’re dead.”
The words come out flat, accusatory. His expression doesn’t shift, not a flicker of apology or relief or regret.
“I was.”
While his voice is the same, there’s an edge to it now, steel under velvet. It’s mesmerizing, almost beautiful in a dangerouskind of way. My heart lurches, like it’s foolishly chasing hope.
Then logic boots up.
Seven years.
Seven fucking years of believing he was dead, that he died in front of me. Seven years of bloody memories and grief and therapy sessions where I defended a dead man like he could still hear me. Seven years of building revenge and then tearing it down because it didn’t fix anything.
And he’s been alive this whole fucking time.
Alive.
Something inside me snaps into place, different than relief.
This israge.
My jaw clenches. My chest begins to heave. My nostrils flare. Reese’s gaze tracks every micro-expression across my face, indifferent and assessing.
“Untie him.”
The guards or whatever they are don’t even hesitate. They move, and my eyes remain locked on Reese as one of them steps behind me, fingers working quickly at the knots. The rope loosens around my wrists, and sensation rushes back in painful pins and needles. My ankles are freed next.
I don’t stand immediately, keeping my gaze pinned on the dead man in front of me as I rub my wrists, buying myself a second to get my balance, both physically and mentally.
Then I push to my feet.
We’re almost the same height. I forgot that. Or maybe I never let myself remember.
I walk toward him slowly, no rush or flaunting or desperation. With every step, it feels as though the ground shakes and fractures deeper and deeper until I’m going to fall right through it.
I stop two feet in front of him. Up close, he’s unmistakably real, a warmth radiating off him. There’s a hard shell around himthough, more jagged edges, and a noticeable scar at his temple I don’t remember being there before. There’s another beneath the stubble of his jaw.
That’s where I aim.
I swing, my fist hitting its target.
The crack of impact snaps through the room, sharp and satisfying. Pain explodes through my knuckles, but it was so fucking worth it when I see Reese’s head jerk slightly to the side, probably more from surprise than force. But I’ll take it.
Before I can even decide if I want to hit him again, cold metal presses against my temples on either side of my head.
Click.
