Page 20 of These Tears

I should know better than to mistake that for victory.

The truth sits ugly and hot beneath my tongue, however: I don’t want to go back to an empty house and spend my days avoiding the thought of everything I ever did that made Ron reject me.

I stand.

His eyes follow me.

Positioning the chair perpendicular to him, I sink down.

He shakes his head. ‘Clo-ser,’ he sing-songs quietly.

‘If you give me the book, I could read it just fine from here.’

‘I want to read it to you,’ he cuts in. ‘But I don’t think you’ll want the guards to hear it.’

I freeze for a beat, my fingers hooked around my camera, squeezing the leather strap as my gaze falls to the incriminating piece of literature I now realise I absolutely should not have sent.

My grip slackens on the strap. One breath gets all the way into my lungs. Then another.

Curiosity traps them inside.

Our eyes lock and something in me gives – not all at once, not enough to be called trust, but enough that I stop fighting the pull of him for one terrible second.

Pushing to my feet again, I pull the chair closer until it clicks against his. And sit.

The air around him folds over me at once – clean soap, pine, that cold winter scent that clings to skin after a long walk in harsh weather. It doesn’t belong in this room. Not with the concrete and the steel. I catch it even if I pretend I don’t.

‘Brave girl,’ he purrs, turning his head towards me as his broad shoulder shifts until his forearm rubs against mine. The chains clink and clank, their chill brushing over my forearms where they rest on the table.

I fix my eyes on the page, the print – anything that might keep me tethered, but the words blur and scatter. I drag my focus back one breath at a time.

When he speaks, his voice is close enough that I feel it like a vibration in my breastbone before the words register. ‘Didn’t they teach you to keep away from bears?’ he whispers. ‘Even wounded ones?’

I keep my face still while my pulse drums hard enough to make a liar of me. ‘Too late now.’

His smile unfurls unhurriedly.

‘Too late,’ he echoes.

And stares.

And the longer he does, the more convinced I become that this may have been my final stupid, reckless mistake.

Then he lifts the book in one hand, thumb bracing the spine flat against his palm. He clears his throat and drops his eyes to the page, but the smile stays put.

Rough, sleep-warm, his voice is everything a woman would want when listening to this kind of thing, but it is far too intimate for a visitation room with steel bolted into the floor.

‘He sank to his knees as if worship and sin were the same thing, and she stopped breathing when his mouth found her centre.’

‘Oh my God!’ I yelp. Heat strikes through me so fast it almost feels like a slap.

He pauses – glances at me – amusement glinting under those unfairly thick lashes, then goes on. ‘With each flick of his tongue—’

‘I’ll get you another book,’ I cut in, pressing my palm over the text, careful not to touch him.

‘Mm.’ He moves my hand and turns the page with exasperating calm, paper whispering under his fingers. ‘I’m broadening my horizons. Be quiet.’

I blow out a breath, which only makes his smile stretch into a full grin.