Page 109 of Kill for a Kiss

“I didn’t mean to…” He trails off as if there’s something he wants to say but can’t get it past his throat. “Didn’t think I’d be gone this long.”

I sit beside him. “Are you okay?”

“Just needed air.” He breathes heavily through his nose.

“You scared us.”

“I scare myself, Elle.” He tries to smile, but it still doesn’t reach his eyes.

For a moment, we sit in silence. The ravine below yawns wide and dark. The quiet sinks into my bones but not in a good way. It’s an unsettling silence that I don’t associate with Stan. Something isn’t sitting right.

I glance his way, taking a better look at him. The circles under his eyes are darker than before. His lips are chapped from the cold. The older bruises and cuts are healing, but now he has new ones on his hands.

“You’re not okay,” I say softly.

“Didn’t think it’d hit me this hard,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “Didn’t think I’d feel thisoff. Like my own skin doesn’t even fit me.”

“You’ve been strong for so long.”

“Yeah, well.” He gives a bitter laugh. “Turns out I’m only strongwhen I’m high.”

“No, you’re not,” I say fiercely, resting my hand on his arm. “You’re still you.”

He closes his eyes and leans into my touch. “Sterling’s gonna kill me.”

“Sterling’s worried,” I correct. “And so am I.”

He opens his eyes again, staring at me. He doesn’t cut the tension with a joke or his usual grin. And that worries me because it might mean he’s been hurting for longer than he let on.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Don’t be.” I squeeze his arm. “Just come back with me.”

He doesn’t answer right away. The flashlight beam shakes slightly in my hand, from this unsettling silence stretching long and taut between us. Then Stan lifts his head slowly. His gray eyes catch the pale light, and for a second, I don’t recognize them. They’re darker, glassier, almost hollow. He looks the way I remember him when we were in that cold room. All those mirrors. All those tears. All those thoughts that scare me. I can’t face them, not when Sterling’s so far from me. And it’s Stan giving me this haunted look, like he’s turning into that ghost again. I can’t let that happen.

“Elle,” he says as soon as my lips part. “I keep seeing you. Even when I close my eyes.”

My grip on the flashlight falters. “Stan…”

“You’re everywhere in my head,” he says. “The sunroom. The bed. The fucking creepy mirror room, where it smelled like bleach and blood and bitterness, but alsoyou, like flowers blooming just for me.”

My heart stutters. My lips part again, but no words come.

“I see you there, and you’re looking at me like you don’t know me. And sometimes,” he hisses, “you look at me like you hate me.”

“Stan,” I whisper, even when the wind’s louder than my weary voice.

“I know it’s not real,” he mutters, almost to himself. “But itfeelsreal. You’rethere.Youwerethere. I wake up, and I’m still sweating, hearing you cry, and I can’t remember if it’s a memory or a dream. If it was because I made you feel good or if it was becauseI hurt you.”

He slides closer, inches away from me now. I don’t move.

His voice drops to a whisper. “And I don’t know if I’m protecting you or ruining you.”

The flashlight trembles again. But I hold his gaze. “I don’t hate you,” I say, quiet but clear.

He freezes.

“I don’t,” I repeat. “Whatever we went through—whatever she made us do—I don’t hate you for it. How could I, Stan, when all we had during those moments were each other?”