Page 107 of Cold Mercy

My entire body goes still.

“What? Leaving where? What the fuck are you talking about?”

He frowns like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “France. She’s already selling the house, selling the company. Didn’t she tell you?”

I don’t even hear the rest.

Not a thought, not a hesitation. I’m already sprinting down the hall toward her room, lungs burning, heart pounding, feeling like the floor is collapsing behind me. I don’t know what I’m going to say, I only know I can’t lose her again.

CHAPTER 27

SOPHIA

I don’t know what the fuck he thinks he’s doing.

Or what kind of malfunction he has in that perfectly wired brain of his that makes him believe every woman should fall to her knees whenever he snaps his fingers.

The last three months weren't a recovery. They were a war. Three months of staring at food I couldn't eat, of lying awake in a bed that felt too empty, of fighting the urge to just...stop. Three months of dragging myself to therapy, where I talked and talked and talked, and all it did was show me just how many pieces of me were still missing.

He treated me like an object. I put my heart in his hands, wide open, stupid, and hopeful, and he spit on it before crushing it under his boots. He has no idea what I went through, and I’m sure as hell not signing up for another round because he suddenly changed his mind.

I asked James to bring his bag upstairs to avoid a scene. If I hadn’t, he would’ve stormed out again, breaking their hearts the same way he broke mine. And the second I saw him tonight, I knew it all over again. Trouble clings to that man like a damn shadow.

I walk into the bathroom and strip down to my underwear. My therapist says to change small pieces of my routine, so tonight I brush my teeth before showering. Stupid or not, it's still a change. No one can blame me for the lack for progress.

The water’s running when I hear him slam through my bedroom door like a fucking maniac, calling my name, muttering something under his breath as he barrels straight for the bathroom and pounds on the door like he owns it.

Unbelievable.

“Reed, shut the fuck up. People are sleeping,” I shout, still brushing my teeth.

He walks right into the bathroom, filling the doorway, tall enough to block half the light from the bedroom, and for a second he forgets to breathe. His eyes sweep over me, bare legs, black lace, toothpaste foam, damp hair falling over my shoulder, and he freezes as if the sight of a half-dressed woman has erased every coherent thought he had.

I rinse my mouth, plant my hands on the counter, and glance at him through the mirror with all the patience of a saint who finally broke.

“What? Never seen a half-naked woman before? You looked, now leave. I made the floor up for you.”

His mouth parts slightly, as if he wants to say something, but the words get stuck in his throat. And then I see the shift in his eyes. His attention snags on something near my ribs.

Fucking indeed. Clearly tonight wasn’t done fucking with me.

He sees the scars, and the expression on his face changes from startled to murderous in a single breath.

His voice drops to a growl. “Who the fuck did this to you?”

I grab my robe and pull it tight around me, tying it at my waist before he can take another step.

I forgave myself for those scars. I understood why I made them, why I reached for pain. They’re proof that I survived. I’m not ashamed of them anymore. But him asking?

It almost makes me laugh.

“I don’t think you get to ask me that,” I say coolly, brushing past him, or more, trying to.

He blocks the doorway with his body. Not touching me or speaking to me, just standing there like some immovable wall of guilt and fury.

His hand slides to my waist before I can dodge him, the heat of his palm pressing through the thin fabric as he pins me lightly to the wooden frame. His other hand braces beside my head, trapping us both in a space too narrow.

Every muscle in me tenses. I should shove him away, break his nose or his fucking arm for the fifth time. Scream, something, anything. But my body betrays me, just like it did months ago, cracking open at the wrong hands.