Page 6 of In Death’s Hands (The Threads of Fate #1)

We stand on the pavement outside The Muddied Waters, staring at each other.

“You really don’t have to accompany me, you know. You’ve already done more than enough,” I say, ignoring the part of me that’s rebelling against my own words. No matter how comfortable I find his presence, I don’t want to become a burden. More than I already am, that is.

He looks at me steadily, his gaze assessing, curious.

I wonder what he sees. His eyes catch my attention and I’m struck again by how dark they are, although the most curious thing happens when a flicker of sunlight shines on us.

His eyes catch fire. I suck in a breath and involuntarily step closer to examine the strange phenomenon.

For the first time, I notice streaks of gold in his irises.

Something scratches at my memory but refuses to fully step forward.

The shrill hooting of a car driving by makes me jump backwards. I feel my cheeks warm and focus on the busy street around us to try to gather my wits.

“I promised I would see you to your door. I keep my promises.”

When I turn back to him, his face is mostly blank, though I think I catch something in his eyes that is gone before I can analyse it.

I sigh, not knowing how I feel about having him follow me home, although the thought of being in my bed soon is comforting enough that I put everything aside. “Fine. But if you want to get moving, you’ll have to hail a taxi.”

The blank look he gives me is enough to make me wonder if I’ve started talking gibberish.

It does happen to concussion victims, although that is one side effect I’ve never had to claim for myself.

When my eyebrows go up at his lack of response, he starts looking around, as if searching for something.

I would say a taxi, but since two empty ones pass us with him still looking lost, I have to wonder if he’s instead looking for a way out of here.

Maybe he’s scared of being in a car? He did say he came to the coffee shop via the Tube, and judging from his clothes and penthouse, saving money is not a priority for him.

Something warms in my chest at the thought that he, too, could be suffering from such a mundane thing. I got better. I can actually get into one now, something that wasn’t true five years ago. I still get the shakes whenever I’m in one, but at least I don’t puke anymore. Silver linings, right?

When I feel my body sway slightly, I take matters into my own hands. I’ve had enough of this guy catching me. My luck being what it is, it’s a few minutes before I see another available vehicle, but at least when I signal the lady driving, she immediately stops the car to let us in.

She hasn’t even pushed back into traffic before my heart tightens in my chest. I rattle off my address and start the box breathing exercise I’ve been taught.

Breathe in for four seconds, hold for four.

Breathe out for four and hold again for four.

Apparently, it’s a technique taught to veterans around the world, and my therapist said it could help manage my PTSD.

The traffic is heavy this morning, the noise deafening.

Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Hold.

A yelp escapes my clenched teeth when the taxi drives over a pothole. I know I should look around, see for myself that everything is fine, but my eyes are shut, and I don’t think there’s anything in this world that could force them open.

In. Hold. Out. Hold.

My left hand is clenched around the “oh, shit!” handle while my right is in a fist so tight I can feel my nails carving little crescent moons in my skin. When something warm wraps around my hand, gently prying it open before wrapping itself around my fingers, I lose count of my breathing.

My eyes finally pry open, shock taking precedence over my fear for a moment. A big hand is entangled with mine, and I follow its path all the way to Nathan’s troubled face.

“Th-thank you.”

His mouth lifts slightly in a sad smile but he stays quiet.

I’m surprised he doesn’t ask anything. Most people would prod until they got to my deep dark secret, not really caring either way but just needing to satisfy their fleeting curiosity.

What he does instead is become a human anchor, holding my focus until there is nothing else.

My muscles relax, the outside noise fades and time loses all meaning.

At least until the driver not so gently indicates that we’ve arrived.

He still looks at me though, as if waiting to be sure I’m all right.

He only comes alive when I pull my wallet out and he quickly hands over what I think are two red bills, but I’m probably seeing things.

No one would give a hundred quid for a twenty-pound ride. Right?

In no time we’re at my building’s door and things turn awkward. At least for me; the man doesn’t seem fazed by much. He’s looking at the names attached to the doorbells before recognition sparks when he sees mine at the bottom.

I open my mouth to thank him and say goodbye, but he cuts me off.

“I was asked to see you to your door, and unless I’m mistaken, this door also belongs to a dozen other beings. Do you not have a private space?”

While he looks intently at me, I’m trying to figure out his words.

One of his brows jerks up in the same way mine is now, mirroring me.

I find I don’t have the energy to say no.

Without a word, I unlock the door and start the painful climb.

Beside me, he observes everything closely.

When I’m rested, I’ll think about what it all means.

How his presence is not required yet incredibly welcomed.

How immediately at ease I am around him, a stranger.

He’s so imposing that he takes up more than half the space, but instead of feeling crowded I feel warm, protected.

I don’t like it; it’s like my body has lowered its defences without asking me.

My head is buzzing by the time I see my door on the second-to-last floor, tiny beads of sweat rolling down my back.

It seems redundant, but I do blame the concussion.

It’ll be a few days before I’m back to normal.

Whatever version of normal my life is, that is.

Without stopping, I unlock my door and immediately feel better. Nothing beats being in your own cocoon.

When I turn to him, his eyes are jumping from item to item in my apartment, a frown on his brow.

Well, that’s lovely, isn’t it? I guess I don’t have to wonder whether to invite him in or not.

I know it’s not much, but it’s all mine.

I pay a ridiculous amount to claim the very small living space.

The kitchenette is in a corner by the window.

There’s a door leading to a small bathroom, and the rest of the room is filled with my bed and an opened dresser showing too much mess for my comfort.

And then there are books. On top of the dresser.

On the bedside table. In piles on the floor.

It’s definitely not a penthouse, but then again, it’s not an empty townhouse full of foreign memories, and truthfully, that’s enough for me.

I clear my throat, calling his wandering gaze back to me.

“Thank you. Again. For everything.” He’s already shaking his head.

“I mean it. You didn’t have to do all this.

Thank you.” I look down at myself, and though I really don’t want to give him his clothes back, for a reason I’m sure my concussion is also to blame, I continue, “If you wait here a minute while I change, you can have these back.”

“Keep them.”

I nod and let silence take over the space.

I want to say something else but nothing comes to mind.

My chest tightens when I think of closing the door on him, but what else is there to do?

Despite having slept in his bed last night, we don’t know each other.

Life pushed us together forcefully for a mere moment, but it’s over now.

I’m so tired. From past experiences I know only sleep will make me feel better.

Sleep and food, and I send a silent thanks to Isaiah for the care package Nathan gently deposits on the small table next to the door as he smiles sympathetically and says, “You need to rest. I’ll check up on you later.

” And just like that, he turns around and goes down the spiral staircase.

Okay, then.

I slowly get undressed in my bathroom while eating a croissant that sends its buttery crumbs all over my floor.

I can’t find it in me to care, though. There’s a slight ache in my wrist that is easily ignorable, and I figure I probably sprained it during my fall.

I don’t even know what number to give this accident. I stopped counting a long time ago.

I don’t know what makes me so special that death seems to want to claim me so badly yet fails every time.

For a while I thought I was simply unlucky.

Then for a few years I firmly believed I had to have been a monster in a previous life, someone who at least committed genocide, to deserve my life.

I also wondered if I’d been cursed and went as far as seeking a fortune teller.

But when she told me that I am a beacon of hope and life and that fate will guide me to greatness, I laughed and let that theory go.

Now, I’m out of theories.

I am not simply unlucky. No one has as many close calls as I do and simply calls themselves unlucky.

I was abandoned as a baby, then, twenty years ago, when I was finally chosen, my adoptive parents died in an accident that stole dozens of lives.

I’ve survived three other car crashes, a fall through a frozen lake that gave me severe hypothermia during a shitty field trip, a flower pot that just happened to fall on my head, a lightning strike that burned a tree right as I was passing by, and many, many other once-in-a-lifetime occurrences.