Page 45

T he dorm’s living area exudes an eerie quiet as I slouch on the leather sofa, idly scrolling through social media feeds on my phone. An anxious tic has my knee bouncing erratically, restless energy thrumming through my limbs with nowhere to go. Irritation? Nerves?

Fuck if I know anymore. The steady erosion of my self-possessed facade over these past few weeks is grating in a way I never anticipated. The mere fact that I can’t get a handle on this disquieting unease only exacerbates the issue. Exhaling a ragged sigh, I glance up as Rhys ambles into the kitchen from his adjoining private quarters.

The earlier discussion with Briar and the others went about as well as could be reasonably expected, I suppose. She laid out some reasonable boundaries and limits given the… situation. Truth be told, the little wildcat doesn’t seem to have many hard stops that we’re aware of—something both intriguing and mildly infuriating.

Hansley did her bloody research to ensure she chose a woman most likely to ensnare my intrigue before the inevitable slaughter. And damn if the sadistic bitch didn’t succeed in spades with her selection.

Just the mere thought of being tasked with extinguishing that defiant spark has my gut roiling with a potent mixture of rage and visceral revulsion. No matter how I might rationalise it as a ‘necessary sacrifice’, the very notion leaves an acrid taste coating the back of my throat.

Rhys’ muted movements in the kitchen draw my wandering attention as he sets about retrieving a late evening snack. My phone slips from suddenly lax fingers, clattering into my lap as I slump back against the plush cushions with a drawn-out sigh.

It takes several moments for me to register Rhys’ scrutinising stillness. When I finally do, our eyes meet across the expanse and I can’t quite mask my irritation at his wordless appraisal. “What?”

Rather than rising to the gruff challenge dripping from that single syllable, Rhys simply shrugs and resumes his languid activities. “Nothing,” he murmurs after clearing his throat. “Just wish you’d talk to Briar, is all.”

A derisive scoff immediately bubbles forth before I can rein it in. “Like that fucking shrew wants anything to do with me right now,” I retort bitterly. “You didn’t see the way she flew off the handle when I merely suggested…” Trailing off, I rake fingers through my dishevelled hair, exhaling a weary sigh. “Forget it.”

Silence stretches for several beats until Rhys lets out an aggrieved exhale, rounding the kitchen island to lean against the marbled surface. “Have you considered… I don’t know, reading some of those romance novels women seem to fancy? Might provide some insight into how to handle such delicate situations.”

My brow furrows at the seeming non-sequitur even as a bark of sardonic laughter bursts forth. “You taking the piss?” I can’t quite stifle the derisive snort that erupts, lips twitching into a fleeting smirk. “I’d rather gouge out my own eyes with a sodding fire iron than force myself to endure that drivel.”

Rhys chuckles lowly as he retrieves something from the refrigerator and carefully stows it away again. “Might not be a bad idea to give one a go sometime. They’re not actually half bad,” he remarks in that perpetually mild tone. “And surprisingly enlightening in some respects. From what I’ve gathered through personal research, the ‘miscommunication trope’ is one of the least enjoyable for most readers.”

What the bloody fuck is he on about?

Confusion wars with irritation as I gape at Rhys in wordless bewilderment, prompting him to clarify with an exaggerated roll of those emerald eyes.

“You need to suck it up and be the one to approach Briar, because she’s too bloody proud and stubborn to make the first move.” He pins me with a pointed look, one brow arching knowingly. “Trust me, . Miscommunication and mixed signals are an absolute romance-killer for anyone with even a shred of self-respect left.”

The words, as ludicrous and infuriating as they may be, strike an unexpected chord in the tattered recesses of my psyche. Gaze dropping to the darkened phone screen cradled in my lap, I find myself grimacing at the weary, haunted visage reflecting back.

Is this truly what I’ve become? Some petulant, withdrawn bastard terrified of baring even the faintest sliver of vulnerability to someone in the same nightmarish quagmire? A man so crippled by societal expectations and toxic masculinity that he can’t even endeavour simple emotional transparency without wanting to claw his own skin off?

Fuck…

Perhaps Rhys is right. As utterly emasculating and humbling as it might feel, I need to be the one to make the first move towards… whatever this twisted new paradigm is meant to be between Briar and I. If for no other reason than to avoid festering in the purgatory of simmering resentment and self-loathing that’s already leaching my spirit dry.

“Fuck’s sake, fine…”

With a guttural growl rumbling in my chest, I shove off the sofa and storm towards the bedroom with renewed purpose. Miscommunication and obfuscation might be standard fare for those worthless romance heroines, but I’ll be damned if I allow myself to succumb to such triteness.

My strides falter just outside Briar’s bedroom door, heart jackrabbiting against my ribs with a staccato cadence that echoes in my ears. Hushed strains of music drift through the wood, some sort of new age rock drivel that has my brow furrowing in mild distaste.

Exhaling a shuddering breath, I raise my knuckles to deliver a tentative rap against the barrier. The sound barely registers over the pulsing bassline thrumming through the space within.

Bloody hell, is she even going to hear me? Or will I just look a right tit hovering out here like a nervous schoolboy?

Biting down on the inside of my cheek, I seriously contemplate turning on my heel and retreating before Briar realises I’m loitering. Yet, I can feel Rhys’ eyes boring holes in the back of my head from the kitchen, silently pushing me to not waver. Indecision freezes me mid-motion as I weigh my dwindling options.

Before I can make up my mind, however, the door abruptly swings inward to reveal Briar herself blocking the entryway. Her nose wrinkles in obvious displeasure as those vivid azure depths rake over my hovering form, rolling in clear exasperation before she pivots and stalks back into the room without a single word.

The open doorway gapes invitingly in her wake, either a blatant rebuke or—and this fills me with dread—a reflection of her perceived lack of autonomy and inability to refuse my presence. Neither scenario bodes particularly well for this already doomed endeavour.

Stomach roiling with a noxious cocktail of shame and bitter resignation, I force myself across the threshold and ease the door closed with a gentle snick. Briar has already crossed to the bed, laptop snapped shut to cut off the offending audio accompaniment as I approach with wary trepidation.

In a move rife with casual dismissal, she folds herself onto the dishevelled bedding, those piercing irises tracking my every micro-movement without a single syllable or tell to betray her thoughts. Of course she’ll make this as bloody difficult as humanly possible.

Releasing a low groan, I rake fingers through my hair in an agitated tic, the other hand tugging at my collar as it suddenly feels far too constricting. Christ, where the fuck do I even start trying to navigate this emotional quagmire without making an even bigger bollocks of the whole production?

I’m clearly stalling, gaping like a sodding fish out of water as each ponderous second ticks by in excruciating slow motion. With an arched brow and subtle cock of her head, Briar’s silent prompting finally jolts me into action.

“I, uh… fuck,” I rasp, the words sticking in my too-dry throat as my hands abandon my rumpled shirt to bury in my pockets. Gaze skittering everywhere but those impossibly blue depths, I attempt to forge on. “I just… I dunno, wanted to check if you needed anything or…?”

The inquiry trails off into muttered oblivion as my shoulders slump in defeat, shame heating the back of my neck as mortification sets in. This whole spiel was doomed from the start, clearly. Once more, I’ve bungled this interaction in a truly spectacular fashion.

Briar sits in that deafening silence for several agonising heartbeats, scrutinising me with an inscrutable mask. Just as my humiliation crests into a full-body burn, she lets out a soft exhale tinged with what might almost be… sympathy?

“I’m fine, yeah?” Her tone is mild, features relaxing to smooth over any lingering antagonism. “But… I appreciate you checking. Really.”

That flickering glimmer of what might be sincere gratitude in her gaze is almost too much, gutting me in a way I never could have anticipated. Throat bobbing as I swallow the lump of molten emotion scalding my oesophagus, I nod once in numb acknowledgment.

Christ, maybe Rhys was onto something after all. Maybe I really don’t have the first fucking clue how to navigate this emotional minefield without detonating every landmine in sight. Thank fuck Briar seems to recognize my bumbling efforts, despite my inability to articulate myself in any coherent fashion.

The deafening silence stretches on, weighting the air with a palpable tension that has me grinding my teeth. I can practically hear the proverbial crickets mocking and taunting the strained quiet between us. Sucking in a shaky breath, I flick my gaze over to the desk chair tucked in the corner, considering grabbing it for a moment.

“You’re welcome to sit on the bed if you’d prefer.”

Briar’s soft murmur breaks through the stillness, her gaze pinning me with an unflinching stare. The olive branch she extends, however small, still has my breath catching in my chest. Thank fuck for pesky glimmers of human decency sometimes.

Mutely nodding, I shift trajectories to amble closer, bracing my palms on the mattress edge as I hover beside the rumpled bedding. A heartbeat, two, three pass with glacial languor as I stare down at the innocuous duvet, steeling my resolve before sinking onto it with exaggerated care. The mattress dips accommodatingly beneath my added weight, cradling me as the crisp linens whisper against my trouser legs.

Briar makes no move to add to her previous assertion, the olive branch stretching only so far, apparently. But it’s still something in this emotional quagmire, and I’ll take whatever minuscule crumbs she deigns to offer. Scrubbing my sweaty palms over the thighs of my trousers in a futile effort to dispel the maddening tingles of nerves, my brain scrambles for something—anything—to shatter the awkward hush.

The only thought that seems even remotely palatable is an apology. Not that I’m confident she’d accept such a thing after my monumental blunders, but it’s still worth the attempt if it might make the slightest bit of headway. God knows I’ve bollocksed this whole interaction from the start.

Rolling my bottom lip between my teeth, I flounder for a beat before making the plunge. “I’m—ah, fuck—”

The words garble uselessly on my tongue, prompting me to swallow and try again after clearing my tight throat. “I apologise… for the other day, Briar. It wasn’t my intention to…” I fumble, searching for the proper phrasing before giving up with a helpless shrug. “To throw money at a problem, or whatever.”

The moment the word vomit spews forth, I cringe inwardly at my idiocy. Briar’s expression instantly morphs from that placid mask into flickering indignation, the blaze in those azure depths sending an icy shiver skating down my spine. Shite.

“No, no—that isn’t what I meant at all,” I rush to correct, backpedaling as quickly as the words will allow. “I don’t care that you don’t have money, it isn’t a problem. It never will be. Honestly, I-I didn’t mean to imply anything like that. I just—”

Snapping my mouth shut with an audible click, I realise I’m only digging the hole deeper with every desperate attempt to salvage this debacle. Briar’s eyes narrow imperceptibly before her shoulders slump with a weary exhalation, gaze drifting to study her neatly folded hands.

“You don’t have to apologise for trying to be kind.” Her words are quiet, sincere in a way that cuts straight to my hollow core. “I’m the one who needs to be sorry for being such a brat, for assuming the worst and lashing out like some entitled bitch.”

The self-deprecating remarks grate against my every instinct, prompting me to glance away as a muscle feathers in my jaw. “You don’t need to apologise for anything,” I counter gruffly. My gut churns as shame heats the back of my neck once more. “I shouldn’t have assumed that you would even welcome something like that. I know you’ve worked hard to get where you are.”

Briar shifts almost imperceptibly atop the mattress, hitching one knee up while turning to regard her laptop bag and various debris strewn across the far side. A pensive frown furrows her brow as she chews the inside of her cheek, gaze distant. When she finally responds, the words are softly spoken but rife with unexpected candour.

“I do want those things, you know. Comfort and… pretty baubles, I guess. Just like anyone else.”

My gaze drifts to her slender profile, studying the artful planes and slopes in silence as I await any further elaboration. The heartbeat that thumps sluggishly in my chest skips when Briar pivots that piercing stare my direction once more.

“I just… thought it was your way of trying to gain more control.” She quirks a rueful smile devoid of any true mirth. “Like how some men buy gifts and dote on you, only to hold it over your head later whenever you inevitably argue over something petty down the line.”

A muscle twitches near my eye but I resist the urge to grimace, clenching my jaw to keep my expression impassive. The girl has no idea how much I truly know about her tortured history—the horrors of losing her parents so young, having to bounce around from one sleazy fuck to another just to keep a roof over her head and something hot in her belly.

All that depravity tracked and logged meticulously by Hansley’s bloodhounds over the years, building a case for this twisted initiation of mine. Part of me selfishly wishes Briar could comprehend the full scope of this clusterfuck, to understand why my motives run so much deeper than any control play or ego stroking.

But I know better than to voice such poisonous thoughts aloud. Not when the tides seem to have finally shifted, allowing us to navigate towards some semblance of common ground. As feeble and tenuous as this fragile truce might be, I refuse to jeopardise the slightest sliver of progress.