Page 51 of Kill for a Kiss

My voice is controlled, but there’s an edge beneath it that I can’t stop. “You don’t remember?”

Her fingers tighten, a faint tremor betraying her composure. “I… I don’t know.” She swallows, a helpless frustration breaking across her face. “I can’t tell what’s real, so if we’ve met before, I’m so—” Her breath hitches softly, eyes squeezing shut briefly. “Everything’s blurry.”

My fists clench under the table. But thathasto mean Clo’s grip is slipping.

Elle’s head lowers, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

I go still. “For what?”

“For not remembering.” Pink stains her cheeks. “For not knowing if…I should trust you.”

I hide my reaction, even though that hits me like a physical blow. It’s well-deserved, so I lean back, voice even despite the pain in my chest. “You shouldn’t trust me,” I say, the truth slipping out rougher than I intend. “But I’ll prove you can.”

Her lips press together. Her eyes skim over me, lingering too long on the mask, curious and searching. “Why do you wear a mask?”

I don’t answer right away again. But my silence only seems to deepen her curiosity.

She shuffles in her seat. “Is it…comfortable?”

My brows knit. I blink slowly, startled. “You’re asking if my mask is comfortable?”

Her cheeks turn into a deeper pink. “I don’t know. I just… I’d feel bad if you’re wearing it because of me.”

I go utterly still. Elle sits across from me, pale and shaking, caught in the silent torture of withdrawal, and she’s worrying aboutme. My throat tightens with a sting. “I’m used to it,” I say dismissively.

Her voice is even gentler. “Do you wear it because you don’t trust me?”

Her question pierces through me, completely unexpected. I don’t trust anyone. It’s a lesson I learned young, carved deep into my bones by Clo’s hand. Trust is a weakness. But Elle has become the only exception. The one person I want to trust. The only one I’ve allowed myself to hope might trust me in return.

I should give her a real answer. But instead, I rise abruptly, lifting her barely touched plate and set it down closer to her. “You should finish eating,” I say firmly, shutting down the conversation before I lose what little control I have left. “Then you should rest some more.”

My eyes meet her confused gaze. I want to give her everything she wants, but right now, I can’t afford to let her see what she does to me. It’s too raw, too soon. She’s recovering from being drugged and brainwashed. And if I had to be honest, I might just let the words fly out of me. That this mask is the only thing stopping me from losing myself completely in her.

She doesn’t deserve that, not after what she’s been through. And with the plate closer to her, she doesn’t stall. She just eats at a snail’s pace. I watch the tremor in her fingers as she lifts the fork. The way she chews like she’s practicing the motion. I see the sweat dotting her brow, the tension in her raised shoulders, the discomfort behind her eyes. She knows something’s wrong.

I should’ve had a better plan. Should’ve mapped out every hour of this, every symptom, every way her body would break down before it could start to build itself back up. If I could take the hurt from her,I would. I’d carry every ounce of pain for her. But I can’t, so I do the only thing I can. I lie to her with silence. I make her think she isn’t suffering.

I spend the entire day hovering at the edges of her discomfort, occupying her time, steering her attention, keeping her warm, making sure she drinks water even when she insists she’s fine. I fill the air with my distorted voice when she needs noise and vanish into quiet when she doesn’t. And she lets me. She lets me take care of her.

I hate how much I want that. How much I need it. How much of myself I lose when I’m close to her, when I don’t deserve any of it at all. But god…do Iwant.

***

By sunset, the sun slides down behind the bunker’s tinted windows, casting light across the matte-dark walls. In bed, she’s curled beneath one of the thick blankets I set out earlier, skin clammy, lids heavy, her breathing shallow but even.

I hand her another damp cloth. Her fingers barely grip around it. And then, she says the one thing I didn’t want her to ask. “When are we going to find Stan?”

Even now, when it’s my hands soothing her, my voice grounding her, my body between hers and the world—it’s still him she’s thinking about. I should’ve been ready.I wasn’t.

I take the cloth from her and wring it out. The basin of warm water splatters. My movements are steady and precise. I don’t let the sting show. My mask hides the fire igniting in my eyes. It does a good job hiding my feelings. When I meet her eyes again, she’s watching me with this quiet hope, as if she’s hinging on the belief that I’ll tell her what she wants to hear.

So I do. I press the cloth to her forehead, voice low. “We’ll find him.”

Her eyes flutter closed, and she tilts into my touch. “Soon?”

My entire body freezes. I think I stop breathing. I hate that she’s thinking of him while I’m the one holding her together. How fucking pathetic that it’s always been like this for me, watching from the outside, like it was with my family.

It’s so much worse with her. Because with Elle, I don’t want to win. I just want to be enough. My head moves in a stiff nod, and her eyes light up, even when her face is drenched in sweat.