Page 72 of Misery

"Do better than try."

He kisses me, soft and sweet. Different from the desperate passion of before. "Demanding."

"You have no idea."

"I'm starting to get one." His hand travels down my side, making me shiver. "How do you feel? Really?"

"Powerful," I admit. "Like I took back something that was mine."

"It was always yours. No one could take that from you."

"They tried."

"They failed." He pulls me closer. "You're here. You're whole. You're mine."

"Possessive."

"When it comes to you? Yes."

We stay like that, wrapped in each other and the victory of choosing pleasure over fear.

Outside, danger still lurks.

Los Coyotes.

The mystery killer.

My parents' silence.

But in this room, in this bed, in this moment, I'm just a woman who chose what she wanted.

And got it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Oskar

The security footage on my phone is grainy but clear enough to make my blood freeze.

I'm sitting in the clubhouse chapel, early morning light streaming through the windows.

The room still smells like cigarette smoke from last night's session ofkirkja.

Empty beer bottles line the table, their labels peeling in the humidity.

A fucking prospect should’ve already been in here to clean this shit up by now.

Someone left a knife stuck in the wood—probably Rio, making a point about something during the meeting.

The table's scarred surface tells stories of a hundred arguments, a thousand decisions, all the acts of war planned in this room.

But all I can focus on is the figure on my screen.

The way he moves.

The particular roll of his shoulders when he walks.

The habit of touching his left wrist—where he broke it when we were fifteen, never healed quite right.