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His eyes search mine, and I have no fucking clue what the man is looking for. “I didn’t tell them shit.”
“Where the fuck are you going?” I ask when he stands from the bed and leaves the room.
I scream out a million frustrations, to the point my throat is on fire by the time the door opens again a short while later.
“I won’t fight you if you just let me go,” I barter when he walks back into the room.
“I like when you fight,” he says, the wickedness in his eyes sparking something inside of me.
I should be freaking out. I should be begging, pleading, asking for him to release me, but I just can’t bring myself to do it.
Deep down, I don’t know if that’s what I even want.
The man terrifies me, but there’s a certain thrill, a sense of excitement in trying to figure out what he’ll do next.
Before he showed up in Tamaulipas, I was ready to die. The fight had left me, and only when I decided I would seek my vengeance on this man was that spark relit. I can’t satisfy those goals tied to his fucking bed.
I struggle against the ropes, re-aggravating the rope burns on my wrists.
“Stop,” he says, but there’s no urgency in his voice.
It’s as if he really doesn’t care but saying the word is expected of him.
“Don’t,” I whisper when he looks up at me, his face full of sadness and concern.
I’d rather be hurt all day, every day than face whatever this man feels the need to get off his chest.
His split fucking personalities, the one wanting the soft kiss after fucking me without permission, is making my damn head spin.
“Don’t get soft on me now,” I taunt. “Don’t turn into a pussy.”
His eyes drop to his hands, and I pray this is just another one of his games, a way to throw me off by preventing me from getting a real read on him.
“I’ll let you go.”
Instead of joy, I feel disappointed.
“On one condition.” He lifts his eyes to mine. “You have to promise you’ll stop putting yourself in danger.”
I think most people would rush to agree even if it was a lie, but I keep my mouth closed, my eyes narrowed on him, my brain struggling to figure out what his endgame is going to be.
“You no longer have a job with the FBI, so there’s no point in doing it.”
I know I made confessions to him. I know I explained as best I could while drunk why I do what I do. He has to know that until I take my last breath, I can’t stop. The punishment and pain are deserved. I’ve earned it by not seeing what was happening with Liana sooner. I earned it with not following her to the bathroom when she said she was going to shower. I earned it for not being enough for our father to split the punishments so that maybe we would both be just a little fucked up rather than her being dead and me being a complete lunatic.
But I don’t get to change the past. Just like I can’t alter the path of my future.
I don’t know how to tell him I don’t want to leave, and there’s no way I can tell him how this last time was different, that I regretted what I did.
I also know that despite the pain it caused, both mentally and physically, I’ll never do it again.
There’s something about him and the memories of him that made what I was doing wrong. I’ve always known it was a bad plan, but knowing and being able to stop myself are two different things.
I know that when there’s any amount of distance and time between the two of us, I’m going to go right back to old habits.
I have no idea how to tell him that I feel like I need him, that I feel like our fucked-up souls need each other.
Needing is a weakness, one I’ve shoved down my entire life. I have no idea why I’m clinging to it now.