Page 109 of Cold Mercy

I step closer, close enough to taste the breath he’s losing trying to keep himself together, and if I knew how to spit venom, I’d coat every inch of him in it.

“Reed,” I whisper, each syllable dipped in ice. “Drop whatever sick fucking game you’re playing. If you want to feel what I felt, here it is, coded clean for your slow-ass brain: I don’t care about you. I don’t have a single fucking atom of feeling for you. And you’re the last person I would ever leave this country with.”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t blink, and I hate him more for that. For standing there like a stone while I fall apart all over again.

“I’m going to shower,” I continue, turning away. “And then I’m going to sleep. Be a good boy and don’t make a spectacle of yourself. Sleep on the floor, pretend we don’t exist to each other. Let’s just survive until the wedding.”

I grab my robe tighter and walk toward the shower, refusing to look back even though I feel him, still standing there, like someone ripped the world out from under him.

I shut the bathroom door behind me and lean my forehead against the cool wood for a second, trying to breathe through the ridiculous cocktail of anger and heartbreak crawling up my throat. Not even one fucking day in this house, and he’s already doing it again. The same pattern, the same push-and-pull he used on me before. Somehow Thomas still thinks he can walk in and reopen every wound like it’s his personal hobby.

A part of me, a small, pathetic, delusional percentage, wants nothing more than to throw myself into his arms and fall asleep pressed into his chest the way I used to. Thank God the rest of me remembers every word he said.

How cold he was, how easily he tossed me aside like I wasn’t even a person.

He told me I meant nothing, that I built everything up in my head, that I was simply wrong. I’m not doing it again.

I wash up, and when I finally step out of the bathroom in my pajamas, ready to collapse, he’s still there, rooted beside my nightstand, shoulders tense, head bent, holding the bracelet he gave me.

Fuck. I should have thrown it into the lake the second he walked in.

I didn’t, though, because I got it from the Thomas I thought cared, Thomas who made me believe, for one stupid moment, that someone could want me without destroying me. And no matter how hard I try, some tiny part of me refuses to let go of that illusion, so the bracelet stayed in the drawer.

Not because I needed him. I needed the reminder that someone once treated me like I mattered.

Now he’s standing there looking at it like it’s a confession I never meant to give. He looks up, and I freeze in the doorway, hand still on the knob.

“So you hate me that much, princess?” he says with that sarcastic lilt that used to feel like flirting and now tastes like poison.

I hate him. I hate him because hearing that nickname again feels like someone dragging a jagged blade through my ribs.

I shut the bathroom door behind me.

“Yes, obviously. The lake is enormous and deep as hell. I thought it was the perfect place to get rid of it,” I say, dry as dust.

It’s a stupid lie, but he doesn’t need to know that. Let him think I’m perfectly capable of tossing away whatever piece of him still clings to me.

He tilts his head slightly, jaw tightening, and places the bracelet back on the nightstand. For a second, I think he’ll drop it and go to bed, finally giving me peace, but instead, he lifts his eyes again, determined in the most unsettling way.

“Teach me,” he breathes out of nowhere.

I blink, my mind scrambles. “What?”

He steps toward me slowly, like he’s approaching something fragile, even though I’m the one trying not to explode.

“Teach me how to be a better man for you,” he says softly. “The kind of man you’d look for in a crowd. The man you’d actually want to fall asleep next to every night.”

For a second, I can’t think, breathe, or decide if he’s mocking me or if he’s genuinely losing his fucking mind.

“Very funny, Reed,” I manage, forcing a laugh that sounds more like a cough. “Go shower, it’s been a long night.”

Instead, he steps closer, and with two fingers under my chin, he lifts my face toward his. My body is traitorous, and my lungs forget how to work.

“I’m serious,” he murmurs. “Tell me what I need to do to make you stay. Tell me what to change so you won’t leave.”

A sharp pain blooms in my chest as I stare at him. God, I hate myself for feeling anything. I hate that I soften, even for a heartbeat.

“And what if leaving is undoubtedly what I want?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.