Page 73 of These Tears

Instinct kicks in and I push away slightly from the table, creating what little distance I can in the cramped booth.

‘What was the sex like with your ex?’

The last bite of turkey lodges in my throat. Air claws its way out of me as I cough and fumble for the water.

It’s not just the audacity of the question, but the way memory drains colour from the world and wrong, unwanted scenes start replaying.

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘Was it kinky?’

‘Stop it.’

‘I know you like role-play.’

‘Oh God—’

He leans in a touch, eyes bright and cruel. ‘I need to know what you’ve already been trained to tolerate.’

As though whatever happened before him was merely preparation.

I peg him with a sharp stare that could peel skin, but his eyes remain intense. Like an eager hawk waiting for that moment of weakness to strike.

‘None of your business.’

‘It is,’ he says easily. ‘You’re my business now.’

‘Your captive, you mean.’

‘My everything.’

My jaw dislodges.

I know he meant it in a certain way, but it lands wrong. It should scrape, cut, confirm every red flag already frantically waving behind my eyes. My everything from a former prisoner, a murderer, who’d stolen my phone, my freedom and my breath.

Despite the rational part of me screaming, a traitorous flare explodes within me. Whatever is buried beneath all that common sense remembers unanswered messages, years of being asked to take up less room, infidelity… And that something turns towards his claim before I can put a leash on it. But not towards the cage – it turns towards the obscene certainty of being wanted inside it.

My stomach knots. Indignation and relief tangle until I can’t separate them.

It’s wrong. Elias Crane is wrong. The choking tone of it.

But my pulse ignores all the warning bells and races anyway. Surges. Barrels into the darkness as if it’s been waiting all along for someone to say I’m not disposable.

Even if the price is everything.

14

I don’t get a single chance to break into a run. I don’t even get the illusion of a choice.

The passengers for Harstad/Narvik are already crowding the small waiting area when we approach. Overhead, the red DELAYED sign flashes beside our flight number.

Bloody perfect.

How much longer am I meant to endure this? At least I’m not the only one restless.

Elias checks the giant clock overhead, that pink lower lip caught briefly between his teeth. The agitation writes itself in the fine creases near his eyes and the tension riding his brow.

His gaze moves from the gate desk to the exits, then briefly to the cameras above.