Page 41 of Cold Mercy

I tempted him all night, fed the tension, provoked it, like I genuinely wanted to see how far I could push him before he broke. And the sickest part is that I did want it. I wasn’t drunk. I drank, sure, but I wasn’t spinning, wasn’t blurred, wasn’t out of control. My head was clear enough to know exactly what I was doing. My body just didn’t care. It felt like every nerve was tuned to him, like my skin had decided on its own that he was the only thing worth paying attention to. My entire body was screaming his name.

Perfect, Sophia. Everything that could have gone wrong did. I didn’t want that guy in the alley to recognize me, and somehow… it worked. But the moment we kissed, I swear it felt like our souls had stepped out of our bodies and gone on their own fucking date. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.

I strip and step into the shower just to get out of my head, letting hot water fall on my hair and run down my back while I stare at a single tile until my eyes blur. My thoughts devour me whole, and when I finally catch myself drifting too far, I finish quickly, throw on pajamas, and crawl into bed, hoping the few hours left of this night will pass without more stupidity.

Weak, weak, weak. Let him kiss your cheek. Forget the dead, forget the pain, just to feel him in your vein.

✽✽✽

I'm strapped to the chair again, the ropes biting into my wrists, the wood digging into my spine. I can't move or scream, only watch. There's no one else in the room, just him and me. Noah is on the floor, dragging himself toward me, inch by agonizing inch. His eyes are locked on mine, wide and pleading, begging me to save him.

“No, please,” I whisper, but my voice is gone. The whisper only echoes in my head.

He reaches out, his fingers brushing the toe of my shoe. Then from nowhere, a shot cracked through his back, burying itself deep. There's no shooter, no weapon. He jerks only once and then goes completely still.

Dark blood pools beneath him, spreading too fast, washing over my feet, soaking my shoes.

“No…no, no, please, Noah. Please, get up!”

That nightmare again. I wake up with a scream, clutching the sheets, unable to pull air into my lungs. Suddenly Thomas bursts through the door. Of course he doesn’t knock when someone screams bloody murder in the middle of the night. He flips the light on and rushes to me.

“Hey, what happened?”

His voice is worried, strained, almost panicked. I can only look at him, unable to speak or breathe, let alone form an answer. He sits on the edge of the bed, close but not touching, waiting for a response that I can’t give.

“Breathe with me, okay?”

He cups the side of my head and gently pulls me toward his chest. I don't fight it as he takes a deep, slow breath and lets it out, guiding mine to match his rhythm.

“Match your breath with mine. Can you do that?”

Pressed against him, I hear his heartbeat, fast but steady, and I realize his eyes look just as unsettled as mine. After a few minutes, my breath finally evens out. Tears still fall, but at least I’m breathing.

“I’m… I’m really sorry,” I manage to whisper.

His expression snaps from worried to almost annoyed.

“Never apologize for that. Not to me.”

I stare at him, surprised by how certain he sounds. He gets off the bed and stands by the door.

“If you need anything, just come find me. You know where I am.”

I nod and wipe my face with the tissues I keep by the bed. Thomas, barefoot, in a T-shirt, pulls the door open.

“Thomas?”

He pauses, still not facing me, like he’s waiting to hear whether I mean it.

“Could you… stay?”

He doesn’t turn around. Why would he? Why the hell would he want to lie next to the girl who tried to kill him at every turn, and then kissed him like a maniac? I rush to fix it.

“Nevermi-”

He turns.

“Sure, I’ll stay.”