Page 15

Willow

“Willow?”

I gulped air at the sudden interruption to the silence. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to exist.

I hadn’t opened my eyes yet, but he was close. By the bed? On the bed?

Forcing my eyes open, the room was pitch black, save for a slither of streetlight pooling through the slight gap between the drapes. It must have been the early hours, but it was January and always dark, so it could be any time, any day.

Keeping my head straight, my eyes – or the slits that were now my eyes – followed the stream of light to the mirror across from the bed.

Instead of reflecting light back into the bedroom, it lit up the right side of his face.

One green eye below a single furrowed brow, half his nose, his angular cheekbone and jaw, and his downward-turned lips.

The silver chain glimmered as he played with it.

Cain was sitting on dining chair - he must have brought it up at some point - staring at me.

He’d been keeping watch on his prisoner.

“Willow.”

He stood, tugging the chair closer to the bed before sitting again. He claimed my right hand like a concerned family member at a hospital bedside, stroking the back of my hand.

I willed myself to yank my hand from his, but the extreme pain rendered me paralysed.

“I won’t hurt you, little Willow.” If I’d have been able to snort, I would have.

He might not hurt me now. This wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last. “I wish I hadn’t had to in the first place, but you don’t listen.

” Tears streamed down my cheeks, I couldn’t let him see the effect his words had on me. I turned my head to hide.

Pathetic sobs escaped him, and I realised he was upset.

“You need to understand. I had to get you to listen.” He gripped and tousled the fingers on my right hand. “I promise, I won’t do it again. I just need you to listen to me. I need you, little Willow. Just like you need me. We need each other. I love you, Willow. I need you.”

He held my hand in his against his cheek, my skin absorbing his crocodile tears. He begged for understanding, but I would never understand how you could hurt someone you claim to love.

And so the cycle continued.

The stepping on eggshells.

The belittling.

The outburst where only I was the victim, but only I was to blame.

The pretence that it wasn’t that bad.

The caring for my injuries.

The false, empty promise never to do it again.

The gaslighting me into believing it never happened to begin with.

The stepping on eggshells, once again.