Page 40

Angelique

T he world blurs around me on the ride home as I sit in silence beside Reign, numb and exhausted, barely aware of the road winding through the trees, or of the shadows chasing us in the rearview mirror.

My dress sticks uncomfortably to my skin, stiff with sweat, and my hands won’t stop shaking as I hold on to Reign. But I can’t feel it. I can’t feel anything. My mind is far away, floating somewhere above the car, above the estate, above all of this.

When we pull up to the house, Reign parks the car but doesn’t move. Instead, he turns in his seat and silently stares at me, like he’s afraid I’ll shatter if he says the wrong thing.

“I’m fine,” I whisper.

I see the way his eyes narrow for a second at the lie, but eventually he nods. “Come on,” he says softly. “Let’s go inside.”

He helps me out of his car, but he doesn’t touch me the whole time, choosing to hover close instead, and it’s exactly what I was afraid of. Now that he knows what Alec did to me, I’m just another girl with baggage and a body deemed damaged goods.

I walk beside him up the stone steps and through the front door, pointe shoes in hand.

My skin is buzzing, like I’ve been peeled open and left out in the cold.

Inside, everything looks the same, but nothing feels familiar.

I hold his gaze, knowing he has questions, but I don’t think I have any answers for him tonight, so I look away.

“I just… I need a shower,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even. “I need to… get him off me.”

Reign studies me, eyes flickering over every inch of me like he’s reading between the lines, but he doesn’t ask questions. He nods once and lets me go.

The door closes behind me with a soft click, and the lock slides into place with a finality that makes my chest tighten before I fall apart. I press my back against the door and sink to the floor, my legs folding under me like I’ve been hollowed out.

The sob breaks before I can stop it, torn straight from my lungs.

I bury my face in my hands and curl into myself, shoulders shaking as I cry into the silence.

I try to be quiet—No. I have to be quiet, because Reign is right outside, and I don’t want him to hear this part.

I don’t want him to see me like this. Not this version of me.

I reach for the shower knobs with trembling hands and turn the water on, twisting it all the way to hot. Steam fills the space, curling around the mirror, the air quickly becoming thick and suffocating.

I strip out of my dress slowly, letting it slide off my shoulders and puddle at my feet. The corset is next, then my bra and underwear. Piece by piece, until I’m left bare, every inch of me feeling wrong.

I step into the stream, and the heat bites at my skin, scalding. I close my eyes and stand there for a long moment, letting it burn, but it’s not enough. I reach for my loofah, pour body wash into the mesh, and scrub hard.

I scrub my chest, my stomach, and my arms. I scrub the bruises forming on my upper arm, where Alec grabbed me, until the skin goes raw and pink.

I scrub until the pain overtakes the memory.

Until the sensation of him—his hand and his voice—is buried beneath the sting of friction and heat.

But it still doesn’t work. No matter how hard I scrub, he’s still there.

My skin burns as my eyes blur, and I toss the loofah to the side, spotting the razor on the ledge as I do. I stare at it, blinking through the fog, heart thudding quietly in my ears, and then reach for it without a second thought.

My fingers wrap around it, and there’s a strange calm that settles over me, like I’m sliding underwater.

The steam clings to my skin as I sit down in the bottom of the shower, water pouring over my back, and draw my legs up against my chest. My fingers tremble as I press the blade to my wrist and draw it across slowly, revelling in the sharp, immediate, pain.

The cut blooms red almost instantly, a thick line that’s far too deep, yet somehow not deep enough.

I feel a release as the blood flows, like I’ve finally done something right.

Like I’ve found the pressure valve and opened it just enough to breathe.

I watch the water wash the blood away, pink spirals circling the drain.

Maybe they’d be better off without me. Maybe I’m just too much. Reign…Lando…Everyone. Maybe the weight I carry is too much for them and for me. Maybe I’m the problem that never goes away. Maybe this world doesn’t need me in it anymore. And maybe, just maybe... I don’t want to do this anymore .

With a trembling hand, I press the blade to my skin again and the pain is worse this time, but I keep going because anything is better than this ache inside me. Anything is better than feeling like I don’t belong in my body.

Anything is better than being me.

I wrap my robe around myself, cinching it loosely at my waist. My curls are soaked, clinging to my face and neck, water dripping steadily down the curve of my spine, and my skin is raw, stinging from where I scrubbed too hard, but I don’t really feel it.

I feel little of anything except the weight on my wrist, and the warmth of blood.

It drips steadily from beneath the sleeve, down my hand, leaving small red trails across the tile as I walk. I watch them but don’t register them. They don’t look like mine.

I open the bathroom door, and my eyes connect with Reign’s. He’s leaning against the opposite wall, one foot propped casually behind him, hands deep in his pockets like he’s been standing there forever. He doesn’t speak as he lifts his eyes to mine, searching, and then they drop to my hand.

His body shifts before he pushes off the wall and walks toward me, his expression unreadable. He doesn’t ask for permission as he takes my hand gently in his, fingers steady despite the blood, and pulls the sleeve back.

I look down, finally. The cuts are deeper than I thought, red glistening across the edge of the robe, the blood trailing down in lazy arcs.

It should hurt, but it doesn’t. Nothing does.

Reign’s brow furrows as he studies it. Then, without a word, he leads me back into the bathroom, never letting go of my hand.

He kneels in front of the vanity and pulls out a white first aid kit, flipping it open calmly, his hands moving like this is muscle memory to him. He pulls out gauze, antiseptic, steri-strips, and tape.

“Are you trying to kill yourself?” he asks quietly, but he doesn’t look at me as he works, wiping the blood from my skin with practiced care, the antiseptic burning.

I don’t answer. He squeezes my wrist gently, pressing the skin around the cut together with two fingers, applying the steri-strip to keep it closed.

“You didn’t cut deep enough to do that,” he murmurs. “If that was your aim.”

I stay silent as the blood pools on the cotton pad in his hand. He changes it right away as I sit on the closed toilet lid, wrapped in my robe, hair dripping onto my shoulders.

He sighs deep and heavy, frustration clinging to the edges of it. “I’m removing everything sharp from the house as soon as you’re in bed,” he says.

And when I still say nothing, his jaw tightens. Then, slowly, he sinks down to the floor, landing hard on his ass, legs bent, arms draped over his knees. For the first time since I opened the door, he looks up at me. His eyes are tired and bloodshot. But there’s a quiet, pleading desperation.

“Please talk to me, Angel.”

The nickname makes something crack inside my chest. I don’t respond right away, but he stays right there, waiting. Like he always does.

“Angel,” he says again, softer this time. He closes his eyes for a second, jaw flexing like he’s trying to keep it together.

“I feel like I’m disappearing,” I finally say, my voice cracking around the truth. “Like I’m made of glass and grief and everything hurts to touch.”

He pushes up onto his knees and reaches for me, his hands settling on either side of my face. His thumbs brush beneath my eyes, and I don’t even realize I’m crying until he does it again.

“You’re still here,” he whispers. “And I will keep holding onto you until you believe that, too.”