Page 43 of Trigger Happy Ending

“Ohhh, he’s mean tonight. What upsets you more, Soren? That you can’t control me … Or that you care that you can’t?”

I’m so fucking done with this. With her. We’re all one step forward, twenty steps backwards. “It’s embarrassing how important you think you are.”

A few tension-riddled seconds stretch between us. I need to remove myself from this situation, nothing good will come from it. I give her my back and walk towards my bedroom which proves to be a mistake. As I reach for the handle, something flies into the bedroom door an inch from my ear.

Thunk.

I stop.

Is that a fucking knife?

Thunk.

Opposite shoulder. I have no choice but to stay rooted to the floor until she finishes this life-threatening display of girl power.

Two more follow, one above my head, the other to the side of my ribs. Four blades total in perfect spacing. Stabby Spice literally boxed me in, like a human target.

She clears her throat, and slowly, I turn around.

She’s standing in the candlelight, a fifth knife spinning between her fingers like she’s deciding whether to throw it at me.

“What’s embarrassing,” she clarifies, “is how easily you forget who you’re fucking with. How many reminders do you need before it sinks into your thick skull? I’ve already shot you. Punched you in the face. Who says I won’t stab you?”

She steps forward, calm and threatening … And so goddamn gorgeous in the flickering candlelight, wearing my motherfucking T-shirt.

“I might be drunk, Soren. But I don’t slip. I don’t get people killed.” Her eyes travel over my body. “Unlike you.”

My blood turns to ice at her accusation. “What did you just say?”

“I said I don’t get people killed, unlike you.”

How does she know …?

“I know all about your little terror squad. You lead them into a suicide mission. It was your fault they died.”

The truth cuts me so fucking deep because it’s true; I got my brothers killed. Whatever heart I have crumbles and turns to ash. The survivor’s guilt is still very much ripping me apart from the inside out. Every day—every single fucking day—I live with it. Raine should be on her fucking knees, thanking whatever god she worships, that I don’t fucking kill her right fucking now.

“Weaponizing my pain,” I deadpan. “Fuck you, Raine.”

She drops the final blade down by her side and turns, vanishing into her room. I cuss under my breath and begin to remove the blades from the door.

She’s got an insanely good aim for a messy drunk. She could’ve easily pinned me to the wood if she wanted to. It was another warning from her, she missed me on purpose.

I tell myself again and again that I should hate her. Fuck knows, it’d be easier.

But I don’t. Not even a little.

And that’s the motherfucking problem. She’s a paradox. Fire and ice, sugar-laced cyanide. I keep trying to categorize her, hoping that if I box her in, I can keep her from getting any closer.

But she doesn’t fit anywhere. She’s too much of everything I want.

She spoke ugly truths tonight, and was a right bitch who definitely owes me an apology, but she also shone a spotlight on something that I can’t ignore anymore.

It’s not her that’s slipping.

It’s me.

Fuck.