Page 8 of In Death’s Hands (The Threads of Fate #1)

I groan as I open my eyes. It takes me a moment to take in my surroundings with the influx of images from the attack. I see the big, ugly scar again as my own hand hovers over my painful neck. I swallow deeply, bypassing the hurt gathered there, and take inventory of my body.

My head doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would.

Nothing hurts as much as I thought it would.

There’s a dull pain in my ribs and breathing is difficult, but all in all I seem okay.

Figures. I get savagely attacked for who knows what reason and still I’m in perfect health. My life doesn’t make any sense.

Reassured that nothing is broken despite my memory swearing that at least my nose, and probably a rib or two, had cracked upon the men’s blows, I’m finally ready to face where I am. Again.

The silk sheets were the first giveaway, but the view of the London skyline at night is confirmation enough.

Nathan’s bed is as comfortable as I remember it. Then again, I was in it just last night.

How is it that I keep passing out around this guy? Even for me, this is excessive. I have a lot more accidents than anyone else I’ve ever met, but I’ve never had two in less than twenty-four hours. And they were some of the most violent experiences I’ve ever had.

“Good, you’re awake.”

I jerk to a sitting position. My fears and questions are lulled by his appearance.

He is still wearing the same clothes and the same look of concern I saw before I blacked out on him.

In his hand is a tall glass of water that he silently offers me.

When I’ve gulped down half its contents, he goes to lean against the large bay of windows to my right. “How are you feeling?”

I swallow, wincing slightly, and give him a little smile. “Surprisingly good, all things considered.”

He nods but doesn’t seem convinced. His eyes roam all over me, seeming to look for something.

Silence stretches between us, becoming an entity in its own right. I’m still sitting in his bed, wearing his clothes, and though he doesn’t seem put off by it, I’m embarrassed.

“Are you hungry?” he asks gently.

It takes a second for me to check in and realise that I am, in fact, starving. The last decent food I ate was the croissants Isaiah had packed for me, however long ago that was. I nod, not trusting my own voice.

“Take your time. I’ll wait for you in the kitchen.” He gives me a tight smile before quietly exiting the room.

I sigh as I run my hands over my face. I’m surprised when they come out clean and decide to make my way to the bathroom. I clench my teeth, bracing myself for the pain that is sure to spark when I get up, but nothing happens.

No pain in my ribs, nothing in my ankles either, although I distinctly remember feeling a crack. I don’t think I have it in me to be surprised anymore.

I ache for a long shower but don’t want to keep him waiting, and truth be told, I’m scared of what I’ll find on my body. I have not forgotten about the red star burning between my breasts, but I convince myself that it’ll be gone, just like everything else I’m sure happened.

Maybe I’m finally losing it after so many close calls.

I see to my needs and exit the bedroom quickly, looking for answers or distractions. I’m not sure which, honestly.

My eyes zero in on the soft light coming from the lit fireplace, and the need for distraction wins.

I want to curl up in front of it with a good book and forget about everything.

However, the fact that I’m in a fancy penthouse with a fireplace of all things is a clear indication that something has gone sideways in my life again.

The whole open space is pretty dark, allowing the city lights to shine in through the many windows.

With the pops and cracks of the fire, I feel like I’m in a cocoon of peace with a window on the messy world outside.

I can see the red and white lights of the cars but not a sound makes its way in here.

Magic. Well, the magic of having money. My own flat is like Swiss cheese: cold air and city noises have no choice but to invite themselves in.

Thinking of my flat threatens to take down the wall I put up in my mind to barricade everything that’s happened.

It’s getting packed in that corner of my head.

From that first accident to the years of misery that followed, that wall has had to shield me from a lot.

I even had to take the door off one day and brick the gaping hole it left.

Now, when I need to put something in that space, I just push it through the tiny cracks that have formed over the years.

It may sound unhealthy, but it’s not. I’m pretty sure. I’d rather try to enjoy each day like it’s a new beginning than deal with the past. It’s done, gone and over with. There is nothing that can be changed, so what’s the point?

When I turn to the only other source of light in this cocoon, I find Nathan studying me. His face is cast in shadows, but the intensity of his stare has me breaking out in goose bumps.

He clears his throat once and nods to the stool in front of the breakfast counter. Without saying a thing, I move over to it, and swallow a lump in my throat when he waits for me to be seated before claiming the stool next to mine.

“I hope you like pizza,” he says gently, sounding unsure, while opening two boxes I hadn’t noticed before. My stomach growls and I think that’s answer enough, except he looks down at it with a deep frown. “Is that normal?”

If he didn’t have such an openly questioning look in his eyes, I would say he’s joking, but I don’t think he is. “Uh. Yes. I’m just starving.”

“Starving?” He looks alarmed and starts dumping slice after slice of pizza on a paper napkin in front of me while raking his eyes all over my body, as if looking for something. “You don’t seem too thin, but you should eat.”

I’m highly puzzled by his behaviour, but when his words register, I burst out laughing.

Surprisingly, or not—I am starting to wonder if he has normal reactions to anything—his frown deepens, and he keeps pushing the tower of pizza slices closer to me.

“You did not just say that to a woman,” I wheeze out, still laughing my ass off.

“What did I say?”

“In woman talk, you called me fat.”

“What?!” He frowns. “I did no such thing.”

The shock in his eyes is incredibly attractive. And that thought sobers me the hell up. I will not go there. “It’s rude to mention other people’s bodies.”

“Is it?” He sighs, shaking his head. “I was simply pointing out that you don’t seem to be skin on bones, like a starving person would be. Which is a good thing,” he adds pointedly.

I nod and take a bite out of the first slice of pizza, struggling to keep the moan locked up.

When I’ve taken enough time to savour every flavour, texture and smell, I try to explain myself better.

“You know what I meant. I said I was starving because I’m extremely hungry.

I haven’t eaten a thing since before they…

” I don’t finish the sentence, not wanting to think about what happened for a while yet.

“Ah.” He stays quiet, watching me devour the cheesy meal without reaching for a slice himself. I would feel self-conscious about it, but I’m honestly too hungry and too tired to care.

When I can’t swallow anything else, he brings me a glass of water, his eyes still fixated on me. “Are you looking at something in particular or…?” Most people would look away or even blush after being called out on ogling someone. But not him. He only seems to look harder.

“I’m just waiting for it.”

“Waiting for what?”

“The freak-out.”

“Huh?”

“The freak-out,” he repeats, as if I should know what he means.

When it’s clear I don’t, he keeps going.

“I’ve been told people freak out after big events, and as far as I know, you didn’t even react after the accident last night.

Does it work in order? First you panic about the car nearly crashing into you and then about those dead fucks in your apartment? ”

I don’t know how many times I open and close my mouth, waiting for something to come out, but I’m sure it’s enough to look like a dying fish.

For some reason, I’m more shocked about the violence that entered his eyes when he mentioned my attackers and him cursing than his outlandish understanding of trauma.

Also, I think that’s the longest I’ve heard him speak.

“I’m… uh…”

“Is it happening now? Do you need anything?”

It’s so strange to see someone so put together looking so frantic.

Gone is the storm in his eyes; he seems at a complete loss.

When he steps closer to me, his movements jerky and hesitant, something finally connects in my head.

“I’m fine.” He doesn’t seem to hear me. “Nathan!” Pausing, he looks into my eyes, and I break the connection before getting lost in his. “I’m fine. Truly.”

“You can’t be.”

A dark laugh escapes my mouth. “You don’t get to decide how I feel.”

Frowning, he cocks his head to the side. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“That’s exactly what you’re doing.” I get up and start pacing, anger simmering low in my belly. “I am fine.”

“You almost got killed. Twice. In less than twenty-four hours. How can you be fine?” Standing rooted in place, he looks so good in the dark, so tall and imposing, that it should be forbidden. And he’s worried about me. Clearly. Openly. It does strange things to my heart.

“I’m fine because I’m telling you I am. You don’t get to suddenly appear in my life and judge how I’m handling things!”

“I’m not j—”

“You are! Everyone always is! ‘That’s not healthy, Liv.’” I scowl. “‘You’re in shock, Liv,’ ‘You should talk about it, Liv,’ ‘What you believe you saw was just your subconscious creating a narrative you could deal with.’” I’m breathing hard now, choking on bitterness.

The shock on his face would be comical if I could find a spark of joy in me at this moment.

But all I hear are the dozens of voices from friends, therapists and people who thought they knew better.

“How about you just let me deal with things the way I’m comfortable with, okay?

Trust me, I’m used to close calls by now. This is nothing new.”

He blinks a few times. “What do you mean you’re used to it?” There’s a hard edge to his voice that is somehow thrilling in its threat.

Damn it. I’m clearly not as fine as I pretend to be if words are spilling out of my mouth without signed approval from my brain.

“Nothing. I mean nothing.” The fight leaves me as quickly as it built, broken pieces afire all that’s left behind.

“I’m just tired,” I add quietly, looking at the wooden log on the fire and relating to it too much for my own comfort.

Nathan appears next to me. Too close yet not close enough. I can see in his eyes that he’s far from done questioning me, but my well-being seems to take precedence.

That’s nice.

He gently puts his big hand on my arm, always watching me, observing my reactions, and guides me to the plush grey couch.

For once, I decide not to fight it. It’s nice being taken care of.

I look at him openly while he grabs a blanket and places it on me.

As he sits next to me, he touches the coffee table, and it suddenly opens up to reveal a crystal decanter full of a deep amber liquid.

Whisky, or maybe rum. He takes two glasses out and pours a healthy dose into each before handing one to me.

Without a word, he sits back and sips from his own glass, looking at the fire like it has secrets to reveal and only he can decipher its burning language.

I swish the liquid a few times in the heavy glass, enjoying the reflection of the flames in the amber. As I keep tasting and enjoying the deep burn of the rum down my throat, I start to relax. My breaths are deeper, my muscles looser. The quiet is warm and cosy rather than overwhelming and awkward.

I should have known better than to trust it.

Once my glass is empty, Nathan takes it and deposits it back on the table next to his own. “Are you ready to talk?”

I close my eyes and consider my options.

His questions are fair, and after everything he’s done for me, I can’t help feeling indebted.

I owe him answers. But another part of me is aware that this is exactly what I’ve been avoiding for as long as I can remember.

Can I trust him? I don’t know anything about him.

Though I’ve been looking at him for months from afar, I only talked to him for the first time yesterday.

It makes zero sense that my whole body is pushing for me to open up, to confide in him.

What inspired this trust that I seem to have no control over?

And so, despite years of keeping my mouth shut, of pushing away people that wanted a peek behind the bubbly, happy curtain I’ve perfected, I decide to trust my instinct.

“I died when I was four.”