Page 56 of Where the Snakes Sleep

The problem is that last night, for the first time, I realized I trust him. I trust him more than I ever trusted Paul—I would have never let him wrap a fucking belt around my neck and choke me until my vision went hazy. I mean, Camille genuinely could’ve killed me last night. In like a handful of different ways.

But he didn’t; I trusted that he wouldn’t. I trusted that he could take me to the very edge of my limits and pull me back down to earth afterward.

I push the pillow away, roll onto my back properly, and immediately regret it when several sore spots make themselves known at once.

Nothing serious, just reminders.

My hand rises toward my neck.

No.

Absolutely not.

We are not lying in bed touching marks and thinking about Camille.

I sit up, a bit too quickly, and feel dizzy. I wait for it to settle, then reach for the half-empty glass of water beside the bed.

I drank most of it sometime around four this morning, after waking up with my mouth so dry that my tongue felt upholstered.

Next to it is Camille’s plate.

Three peach slices survived the walk.

One survived me sitting on the edge of the bed eating them in the dark because apparently he was right about needing food afterward.

The last one has gone slightly brown and will need to be thrown out.

I push up, leaving the bed, and immediately come into contact with the wardrobe mirror.

My hair is a disaster. There are shadows under my eyes. A bruise curves beneath the collar of the oversized sleep shirt I dragged on after stumbling home, and when I shift, another disappears beneath the fabric. When I lift my chin, there’s a literal ring of purple mottling sitting around my throat like a collar.

None of the bruises really bother me. I actually find myself admiring them, pushing at them just to feel the ache. The thing that bothers me is how I felt during and directly after sex.

It was different than usual. It made me feel too vulnerable, too open, too… too clingy.

And with Camille helping me wash afterward, being so gentle after being so very not, it fucked with my head.

It scared me.

It scared me because I had wanted to stay.

I wanted to stand underneath warm water while he washed me, and sit on his bed wearing one of his stupid expensive shirts while he brought me fruit and water.

I wanted to put my head on him somewhere—his chest, his lap, his shoulder, I don’t fucking know—and just shut my brain off.

I wanted to relax.

With him.

Let him be my soft place to land.

The realization had hit me mid-shower.

And Camille noticed, because of course he fucking did.

Camille notices when my breathing changes.

He notices where I look.