Page 20 of Don’t Let Him In

“Promise me you won’t pull away,” he says, his head cocking to the side as we lock eyes, his expression so tender it begins chipping at my resolve.

Reluctantly, I nod. Desperate for something else to focus on besides the combative thoughts rattling around my head, I trace a fingernail along the rough edge of the floorboards beside me.

Silence festers for the briefest moment, but it feels like an eternity.

Brows quirking, he opens his mouth, hesitates, then presses his lips hard enough to flatten them again. My gut churns.

Unease creeps back in, but I funnel it into the protruding nail jutting from the floor, worrying the sharp edge beneath my thumb while the slightest shift in his expression tugs at my nerves.

“Manson, you’re scaring me.”

His throat rolls. The tension in his jaw clashes with the gentle way he caresses the edge of my chin. “I’m not trying to. I just⁠—”

Releasing my chin, he carefully stills the nervous motion of my thumb against the nail. His attention never leaves my face as he guides my arm higher, drawing me away from the wall I’m slumped against. Afraid to test his strength, I let him maneuver it around my head, unable to make sense of what he’s doing.

It’s taking too much energy to dissect everything. Too much energy to keep my head afloat as a splitting ache unfurls behind my eyes and fans outward across my skull.

“You had a really bad fall,” he begins to say⁠—

—the fall.

My mind snaps back to it, but the thoughts reel too quickly for me to pick apart and sort through.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, the sadness in his voice raising every hair along my neck. “I never wanted this to hurt you. I just didn’t know how to explain it all. Yet.”

“What?” I splutter, my voice meek and wavering, warily tracking every flicker that crosses his face. Something is crushing my chest.

Eyes still locked on mine, he guides my trembling hand around the back of my head until my fingertips brush something cold and damp.

A tidal wave of fear grips me by the throat. I choke on it, unable to form intelligible words. Frozen. Cemented in place. Time collapses into a slow, dreadful loop of confusion and agony. I need it all to stop.

When he lowers my hand back in front of us, bright red coats my fingers, the metallic scent sharp and prominent.

My eyes widen at the sight of it, a broken, disbelieving sound slipping from me, my thoughts tripping over each other.

I’m bleeding.

Why am I bleeding?

Manson’s soft features collapse a fraction, his eyes hooded when he delivers the final blow.

“I’m so sorry, Tatum,” he says, his voice low and regretful. “You didn’t survive.”

“No.” The word slips out, barely a whisper. Everything in my mind slows to a crawl as I try to connect the dots. A second later, I’m shaking my head. Slow at first, then more fervent. “No, no, it’s not true!”

Wrenching my arm from his hold, I hear a sharp pop from my shoulder before stabbing pain shoots down my back. A sharp gasp slips out of me, but the roar in my head rises higher, scraping every coherent thought away and leaving me sifting through every memory until my head swirls and my fists shake.

Beyond the doorway, Dax and Blair’s voices continue to tangle with one another from down the hall. Arguing and pleading. Existing.

Drifting away.

Completely oblivious to the unraveling happening here where they’ve abandoned me. A swallow hooks in the curve of my throat. The pressure behind it condenses into a stifling pinpoint, constricting until the truth caves in around me.

Horrifying.

Devastating.

I’m not—I can’t breathe.