Page 108 of Cold Mercy

He gently pulls the edge of the robe aside, revealing the faint lines along my ribs. His jaw locks, and he bites the inside of his cheek like he’s holding back a war.

His finger brushes over the scars with a tenderness so improper it makes my stomach twist.

“Tell me who did this,” he whispers, eyes burning into mine. “I’m not leaving until you do.”

He’s standing so close I can feel his breath ghost across my cheek. I should hate him, or at least not want him. But something about the way he looks at me, like breaking the world in half wouldn’t be enough punishment for whoever he imagines hurt me, almost makes me stupid. Almost.

I lean in, close enough that our noses nearly brush.

“I did it to myself, asshole,” I say with cold cruelty.

I yank the robe closed and walk past him. He lets me go but doesn’t move, still trying to compute what I just said.

“Sophia…I’m sorry, I didn’t know…”

“Don't act like you care now,” I snap, not turning around. “Don’t you dare look at me like I’m some polluted little tragedy you get to analyze. You don’t get to judge how I survived through hell.”

I can feel him wanting to come closer, wanting to do something stupid like touch me or comfort me, but even he knows better. Or maybe he’s finally learning.

“You think we’re going to talk it out? Hug? Pretend none of this happened? Because you saw me with Charles and suddenly changed your mind?” I say sharply.

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t deny it.

“Look,” he says, stepping into the room. “I won’t defend myself. I know I fucked up. I know I hurt you. But if you ever need anything, I mean anything, I’ll be there. As a friend, someone you can talk to.”

Watch the dead man walk. He offers crumbs and calls it bread. He's just a ghost inside your head.

A laugh breaks from me, the kind that isn’t funny at all.

“Is that why you barged into the bathroom? Because you’re dying to be my friend?”

His expression shifts, the sadness morphing into something sharp.

“You’re leaving,” he says.

He doesn’t ask but states it like a sentence.

I narrow my eyes. “James told you? That fucking idiot was supposed to keep his mouth shut.”

He takes a step closer.

“I’m going with you.”

I should have walked away the second he opened his stupid mouth. I should have slammed the bathroom door in his face, drowned his voice under running water, pretended he never burst into my room like a fucking hurricane.

“Over my fucking dead body, Thomas. I’m not leaving with you. Do you understand that?” I’m shouting so loudly the windows might crack.

We’re standing chest to chest now, breath to breath, the tension between us so sharp it could slice through bone. He doesn’t flinch, just steps closer, like he wants the blow, like he wants every ounce of venom I have left in me.

He drags in a breath, slow and shaky. For the first time since I've known him, the unshakable, unbreakable, terrifying Thomas Reed isn’t staring back at me. There’s someone else in his place. Someone stripped raw, someone clinging to something they don’t have the right to want.

“I don’t,” he whispers hoarsely. “I don’t fucking understand. I’m going with you. I’ll follow you to France, to fucking China or Brazil, wherever the hell you decide to run. I don’t care.”

I blink at him, once, twice, because this has to be some kind of brain damage.

Maybe he hit his head, and something snapped loose inside him.

Potentially on Tuesdays he cares, on Wednesdays he doesn’t, and on Thursdays he suddenly wants to cross oceans for me. Because there is no universe in which this makes sense. Three months ago, he acted like the idea of me touching him was a mark on his honor, and now he aims to follow me across continents?