Page 98 of These Tears

A spark flares in my chest. I’m not sure if it’s at the cruelty he must have endured in the past to make him think it’s a necessity in the future, or at the sheer injustice done to him.

‘Here’s another lesson,’ I say, and I’m surprised by how steady my voice sounds.

His brow twitches, a corner of his mouth threatens to lift.

I don’t move away, but don’t inch closer – just keep the line exactly where it is.

‘Cruelty gets compliance,’ I continue. ‘For a while.’ I tap the book once against my knee. ‘But all you’re teaching people is how to disappear around you. How to make themselves small enough that you don’t even notice you’ve broken them.’

His eyes narrow.

I should stop. God, I really should stop. Every instinct I have tells me to let him have this room and the last word, and this empty victory.

But fear still weighs heavy on my shoulders, though heat has climbed into my face and my grip on the book is starting to hurt.

‘You want control,’ I cut in as his lips part and words begin to form. My pulse kicks harder. ‘You want to know what someone will do before they do it. That’s why you like thresholds.’ I give him a humourless smile. ‘Cross, don’t cross. Freeze, don’t freeze. Beg, don’t beg.’

Silence. The fire makes a low, shifting sigh, like it’s listening in too.

‘Kindness… that is hard,’ I say, quieter. ‘Because it’s not a lever. It’s not a trap. It’s something you give without being able to guarantee you’ll get something back.’

He blinks, gaze dropping to my lips, then lifting back to meet mine.

‘And that’s exactly why it works,’ I add. ‘It doesn’t force anything. It changes what someone expects from you.’ I swallow down the anxiety and let the rest fall out of me. ‘If you want someone who doesn’t have to survive you, you let them close without making them pay for it.’

‘Is that what your fiancé did?’ he cuts in.

My mouth clenches shut. Old wounds reopen. Bleed.

‘He was an arsehole,’ I grumble out. ‘Whoever hurt you was an arsehole, too.’

I stand. He doesn’t stop me.

Stalking into the bedroom, I pull the door closed behind me, but I’m well aware it’s a poor barrier.

His words follow me through it anyway.

Instruction.

My molars grind.

What a convenient word. Scrub the blood off punishment, cover it with something respectable and suddenly cruelty becomes a fucking curriculum.

I pace once towards the window where the snow assaults the glass in waves. My feet stop. Then make a turn.

Because there’s nowhere to go that doesn’t end in wood, snow or him.

Thresholds.

I toss the book still in my hands onto the bed harder than necessary.

He has a threshold for everything. Warmth. Food. Freedom. Even kindness needs to pass through some invisible bloody checkpoint in his head before he can trust it.

Fucking Arthur.

That is it, though, isn’t it? Arthur Crane’s handiwork.

I drag both hands over my face and hold them there until the heat beneath my skin begins to ebb. Unrest drains out of me slowly, leaving behind something much heavier than rage.