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“He was still far enough behind you when the explosion went off. He’s irritated he couldn’t save anyone but unharmed.”
“Thank God.” I release a loud breath, my chest lighter at that knowledge.
I don’t want to be responsible for anyone else getting hurt.
I can’t be.
Too late for that, considering where you’re at, isn’t it?
I take in Phoenix again, this time more properly. There’s a bandage on his forehead.
“You got hurt.” It’s not a question but a statement.
Unsurprisingly, he shrugs. “Just a few scratches.”
I lift my hand toward his face, wanting to make sure he’s okay, even though I know touching his face won’t make a difference. But I don’t get far, the stinging pain near my wrist returning, and I glare at the IV.
His eyebrows draw together at my wince. “Please don’t. You’re already hurt enough after what you did.”
After what I did.
When I got the text message, I acted without thinking about the possible consequences. All I could think about wassaving Phoenix. Nothing else mattered. But now, there’s this enormous elephant in the room with us.
I close my eyes, shutting out the questions in his. I’m sure he has lots of them. And at the moment, I don’t see a way out for myself. What plausible excuse could I have for knowing about the bomb without telling him the truth? Without telling him about the messages? About Freddy?
Sure, I could say nothing, but he wouldn’t believe me. I think he’s already suspicious about my nine-one-one call as it is. Now this? He won’t leave it alone until I tell him.
Do you want to tell him?
This whole situation with Freddy has been eating at my soul for years, slowly disintegrating me from the inside out.
Message by message.
Terrible thing by terrible thing.
Phoenix’s warm hand moves over my cheek and down my throat to rest on my pulse point there. His touch is a soothing balm to my soul and the only thing that keeps me tethered to this world.
His breathing is uneven, and I open my eyes at his next harsh exhale.
I almost wish I hadn’t.
The expression in his eyes twists something in my stomach. It’s raw and laced with emotions I’m not sure I’ve ever seen in him. Or anyone else, really. A vulnerability that feels like a knife to my sternum, ready to cut me wide open. For a moment, I imagine baring myself to him, letting him see all of the darkness and ugliness inside me. I can’t help but wonder what would be worse: if he rejected me because it’s so abhorrent or if he didn’t.
And isn’t that my answer right there? Because yes, deep down, I want to tell him. I want to tell him everything.
“Why did you do it?” He swallows. “Why did you save me?”
The question comes out quiet and shaky, a total contradiction to the unspoken words floating around us. They’rehisunspoken words, loud and stifling, trying to wrap a noose around my throat.
You could have let me die.
You could have escaped this life you so clearly don’t want.
You could have gotten rid of your fiancé without lifting a finger.
You could have had the life you wanted.
Little does he know my life was already in shambles before he ever returned to it.