Page 187 of Trailer Trash

“Oh, Lord,” I say and roll my eyes. “If rape—”

He holds up his finger to silence me. “Don’t say that word.”

“I mean, if taking me is love, I don’t know if I can survive you.”

He swaggers toward me, then retrieves his pocketknife, snapping it open.

I gasp and sit up in the hammock, placing the bowl of strawberries on the floor.

“Where did you get that?” I exclaim.

“It’s new. I’ll always have one.” He pushes on my legs, bending them so they’re close to my chest. Then he swings his legs over the hammock, sitting on it while facing me. He holds out the open blade.

“Take it.”

“Huh?”

“Take it,” he insists.

Cautiously, I reach out.

“Grip it with both hands like you did before.”

I obey. Then he guides the blade tip under his chin as before. He holds up his hands in surrender.

“Push up until it starts to cut.”

“Killian, no.”

“Do it.”

I hesitate, then start to apply pressure. In a split second, the knife is gone.

He holds it up, looking bored. In a dark tone, he says, “I let you.”

“You let me?” I echo.

“Yeah. I could’ve taken you if I wanted. I let you have your victory. It’s what you needed, right?”

My eyes widen. Part of me wondered if I was truly in control that night.

“Harlow. I will always give you what you need. You needed me to back down for you to feel safe, so I did. I meant what I said. You are safe around me. I want to be your sanctuary, not a loaded gun waiting to go off. I know what that’s like.”

His words are the type of medicine he needed from me. Now he’s in a place he can reciprocate. I won’t let him get off easy though.

I count with my fingers. “So no stalking, no drugs, no skipping therapy.”

“It’s not stalking. It’s love.”

Even he smiles at his statement.

I hold out my hand, palm flat. “The pocketknife.”

He pauses, curious, but places it on my hand. I toss it in the nearby trash bin.

“I don’t want you to ever carry a knife again.”

His head tilts in that way it does when the monster thinks too long, but then, he nods.