Page 125 of What We Burn

I should be furious. Ten minutes ago I would have been. But something about the way he said don’t ever take it off disarms me. He’s not defending it. He’s not spinning it as reasonable or necessary. He’s just sitting in the ugly truth of what they did and asking me to let them keep doing it.

“I’m not okay with it,” I say. “For the record.”

“I know.”

“We’re having a conversation about this. All of us. And Milo is going to explain exactly what that tracker does and what data it collects and who has access. I’m going to decide whether it stays or goes. Not any of you. Me.”

“Fair.”

“If I find out there’s one in the knife handle too, I’m using it on all of you.”

The ghost of a smile crosses his face. Gone before it lands. His hand is still in my hair, slow strokes that feel less like a man comforting a woman and more like a man making sure she’s real.

“I had to cut you down, Sage,” he says.

My breath catches. We don’t talk about that night. Not directly. It’s the before and after. Everything that came before the noose, and everything since.

“I heard you choking,” he continues. His voice is low, stripped back, like he’s pulling the words out of somewhere deep and they’re leaving marks on the way up. “Through the bushes. And I found you and you were—your lips were blue, Sage. You weren’t breathing. I cut the rope and you dropped into my arms and I put my mouth on yours and I breathed for you. I screamed for Micah and said your name over and over because I didn’t know what else to do. And the whole time, all I could think was—this is what I get. This is what happens when I find something worth living for, and become the thing that destroys it.”

I don’t know what to say. His voice is breaking and his chest is shaking and he’s clinging to me like if he lets go I’ll vanish. I wrap my arms around him, tighter, hating myself a little for not seeing that this is what he’s been holding behind the walls for weeks.

“You didn’t destroy me,” I whisper.

“Didn’t I?”

I shift so I can see his face. It’s raw and red-eyed and almost beautiful in its honesty.

“Eli.”

“I rode in the ambulance holding your hand. Sat in that hospital for days, just watching you breathe. And I swore that if you woke up, I would never—” His voice fractures. “I’d never be that coward again. I’d find a way to deserve you, even if it took me the rest of my life.”

“Eli—”

His thumb traces my cheekbone. “I watched you today. At the mall. Getting your nails done, throwing fries at Jamie, laughing so hard you bent double. And I kept waiting for it to look like a performance. Like the version of you that kills, and the version that waits tables, and the one who loves five men couldn’t all be the same person standing there.” He shakes his head, slow. “But they are. You don’t keep yourself in pieces, Sage. You never have. You just hold all of it at once like it’s the most natural thing in the world.”

“It’s not natural,” I whisper. “It’s exhausting. I’m terrified half the time.”

“But you do it anyway. You hold all of it and you don’t break.” His hand stills on my face. “I’ve spent my whole life convinced there wasn’t enough of me to do that. That if any of it touched, it’d all come down.” A breath. “I want to learn how you do it. I don’t know if I can. But I want to try.”

I cover his hand with mine. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted you to do. Try.”

“I’ve been so scared,” he says, and his voice drops on the last word like he’s never said it out loud before. “Not of the threat. Or Stephen. Or whoever’s out there. I’m scared of this. Of loving you this much and not being able to control the size of it. I don’t know how to be that person, Sage. The one who lets things happen—lets go.”

“You just did. Five minutes ago. Inside me.”

He exhales and it’s almost a laugh. “That’s different.”

“It’s not, though. It’s the same thing. You letting go. Trusting that I can take it. That I’ll use the safe word if it gets too much.” I press my palm flat against his chest, over his heart. It’s still racing. “You don’t have to be the container for everyone else’s shit, Eli. You’re allowed to put stuff down.”

He’s quiet for a long time. Long enough that I start to wonder if he’s retreated back behind the walls. But when I look up, his eyes are open, fixed on the ceiling, and there’s something different in his face. Not softer, exactly. Just lighter.

Eli tips his head forward, brow furrowed, mouth a line. “Do you still want to kill again?” he asks, so quietly it’s almost a thought.

“Does it make you hate me?” I ask instead.

He shakes his head—the denial is so fast it leaves no room for doubt.

“I want it,” I say. “Not all the time. Not like . . .” I move my hand on his chest, trying to find the right words. “It’s not that I’m looking for excuses to hurt people. I just—after Brock, after the noose, I can’t imagine a world where stopping someone like him isn’t a kindness. For everyone else. For me, too.”