Page 33 of Chicago Sin

“So… Are you going to let me go now? Are we cool?”

I go still. Blink. The room swoops around me. I drop the towel on the floor. What the fuck is she saying?

A rushing sound starts up in my ears.

Did I just… rape a girl?

Did she think she had to do that for me to set her free?

“Is that what this was?” I choke, not even realizing I’m advancing on her. Not conscious of my hand caging her throat and pushing her back. “Is that why…is that...fuck!” I roar and punch the wall beside her. The plaster caves, and my knuckles go through it.

“Fuck.” I release her and turn away.

Did she just offer herself up to me in hopes I’ll set her free? What kind of monster am I?

I can’t even tell when a girl wants me or not. I’ve gotten so confused, stuck in the modes of violence and survival, I don’t even know what’s real.

I thought I could manage this situation with Hannah. Had some vague idea about how to keep her from getting hurt by me or the organization, and instead I did the most unforgivable thing.

I pick up my clothes from the floor and pull them on, my chest cracking open as Hannah opens the bathroom door and makes her escape from me.

I follow only because the steam in the bathroom’s making me dizzy, and I really fucking need to think.

I hear a stifled sob, and bombs explode in my chest, down my arms, in my gut. Hannah’s got her back to me at her dresser, trying to get her second foot in a pair of panties and missing. I should give her space. I definitely shouldn’t go to her.

But I do.

In a second, I have an arm banded around her waist to support her wobble, and I reach down to hold the waistband of the panties for her. I slide them up when she gets her leg in and just hold her from behind.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur against her hair.

Her chest shudders on a sob. She stands still for a moment, like she’s listening. “Sorry for what?” There’s a quietness to the question.

It’s some kind of test, but I don’t know what it means. Like there’s some answer I need to give that will make this all better. All I fucking know is the sound of her stuttered breath kills me.

Because all emotional intelligence I once had—if I ever had any—is long gone, I mutter, “Whatever made you cry.”

It’s the wrong answer. I know as soon as I say it. I know it even better when she squirms away from me, whirls and slaps my face. It’s a wimpy slap and half-misses me. It clearly didn’t give her the satisfaction she was going for because she curls her fingers into a fist and throws a punch instead.

I dodge it, catch her wrist and wrap her arm in front of her waist. With my other arm, I scoop under her knees and lift her into a baby-carry.

She gasps and struggles. “What are you doing?”

I don’t know what I’m doing—why I picked her up or what I’m going to do with her now. All I know is that I don’t like the chaos in my chest. In my head.

I carry her to the bed and set her on it, yanking the sheet off the corners to cover her bare breasts. I sit beside her on the bed. I want to hold her, but my touch is obviously not welcome. “I just—” I try to unravel what just happened. She’s more pissed now than she has been throughout this whole thing. Which must mean it was something I said… I review what just transpired between us and... ah.

I’m an idiot. I asked if she had sex with me, so I’d let her go.

She glares at me, lower lip trembling with obvious offense.

“Hang on, Hannah. Let’s straighten this out. I wasn’t calling you a whore. I didn’t mean any disrespect. Not at all. I was—” I draw a breath, trying to find words to explain the rage inside me. “I was pissed at myself.”

The rage settles. Like identifying its source was what it needed.

“Did you feel like you...had to? With me? I didn’t—did I force you?”

“No, asshole.” She shoves my chest.