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I pinch my eyes shut, shaking the thoughts from my head.

My chest is too tight, and panic is starting to set in again.

“Zade—”

“Shh,” he hushes. He sits on the ground, leaning against the bed frame and spreading his legs. My muscles tighten until I’m vibrating with the need to get away.

“Sit here,” he says firmly, patting the ground between his legs.

Hesitating, it takes a few seconds to gain the courage to listen and crawl toward him. I look anywhere but at his face. If I see him, I might back out.

“Turn away from me.”

There’s no stopping the look of relief before I twist around and settle between his thick thighs.

I’m still strung tight, but I can breathe a little easier this way.

“I’m going to lean you back into me,” he warns. Biting my lip, I nod my head, allowing his hand to come around my body and press on my chest, guiding me to lean back.

It feels like trying to bend a metal spoon. It takes effort, but eventually, I rest against his chest. His heat soaks into my skin, like the sun shining on your face on the first warm day of spring after a long, cold winter.

“That’s it, baby. Relax.”

It takes several swallows before the lump forming in my throat dissipates.

“Breathe,” he whispers.

I do. I try to, at least.

The oxygen stutters out of me like an old engine. With every intake, it feels like I’m breathing in chemicals. Everything burns. Everything is too tight.

“Take this,” he directs, holding the rose in his bandaged hand. Tiny trails of blood slide down his wrist, and something about that is calming, just like when he cut his hand open on the k

nife to bring me pleasure.

Watching someone else bleed doesn’t make me feel quite so alone.

I take the rose, a thorn immediately pricking my skin, but I hardly feel it. Not with all of my attention on the heat of his body pressing into my back.

“Can I touch your thighs, baby?” he asks, his tone hushed and deep. Another nod of my head, and his large hands are slowly spreading my thighs. All of my focus zeroes in on the movement, and the terror is becoming too much. Tingles blossom in the tips of my fingers, and I know pretty soon, they’ll travel up my limbs until I can no longer feel them.

“Relax,” he soothes. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to think about it really hard, okay?”

Sucking in a deep breath, I hold it for a few seconds before releasing it. And then I nod, working to calm myself.

“What makes you feel powerful, Addie? Was it holding that gun in your hand? Holding it to my head and knowing that you could take my life?”

Tears rise, followed by a touch of guilt.

“I’m so—”

“I don’t want your apologies or guilt, Adeline. I want you to tell me the truth. What did holding a gun to my head make you feel?”

Tightening my lips, I quiet the shame and look past that. What did it make me feel?

It made me feel… in control. I was holding someone else’s life in my hands, and it was my decision and only mine if I pulled that trigger. I held something precious. Something irreversible. And it was all… mine.

“It made me feel powerful,” I admit.