Page 36 of Threads That Bind Us

It takes a few moments, but eventually Gwen follows her down the hall without a second glance at me. Their muted voices travel through the walls, soft and a little apologetic, and I clean the kitchen. They’ll repair this little rift in their relationship soon, maybe even tonight, and now I’ve planted the seeds to make Ana comfortable with the idea of living here. And Gwen might agree to it, if only to prove that Ana’s needs don’t limit them.

The familiar thrill of winning, of executing a plan, of getting the outcome I wanted, pulses through my veins, but it’s not as sweet as it normally is.

I’m nearly done loading the dishwasher when I hear the door to Ana’s room shut. There are no footsteps, no sign that Gwen’s returning to the living room, but I’m not fooled. She’sprobably standing in the hallway, doing her best to contain the anger boiling in her chest.

Finally, I hear her approach. Muffled steps, steady breaths, so much control.

“Ana get settled okay?” I ask, even though I know it will set her off. Usually, I enjoy taunting my prey, especially after I’ve already won.

Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I don’t want Gwen to be prey.

“What the ever loving fuck was all of that?” she demands, each word clipped and laced with venom.

“What do you mean?” I ask, even though I don’t want to. I’m pushing further than I need to, and a little voice in the back of my mind that sounds suspiciously like Bea tells me to stop.

But this is what I do, it’s who I am. I find someone’s weakness—be it physical or psychological or emotional—and exploit it. I use what I know and get them to break, to submit, to give me what I want. And Gwen’s weakness, ironically enough, is the fortress of fury she’s built around herself. So tall and wide she doesn’t see the cracks in its foundation.

It’s second nature to keep searching for faults I can take advantage of, to push for one more slip up, one last break. To show her I can slither into those cracks. Bea’s voice taps at the back of my mind again, screaming at me that Gwen is not a target, not a victim. That there are other ways to get what I want, to work with her, to have her on my team.

Partners, maybe friends.

But the sensation is so familiar it’s like muscle memory, my body and mind slipping seamlessly into this version of myself. When she finally walks up and stands next to me in front of the sink, I smile at her, and it feels wrong, too cruel. This isn’t the smile I gave my redhead in the bar. It’s the one I give to my victims.

“Inviting us over here without clearing it with me first? Using Ana to get me to move up my timeline? Manipulating every fucking second to get what you want?” Her voice shakes with fury, and my smile falters. She’s angry, sure, but she’s also teetering on the edge of some break, pain and sadness thrashing through her eyes.

“Gwen, I…” I don’t even know what I’m about to say, but she doesn’t let me find out.

“Don’t you fucking dare. I agreed to your fucking terms. I wanted to ease Ana into this because I don’t want her feeling like a prop in my relationships. Like she’s going to meet some new guy who wants her sister to upend their lives and make her leave her home every six fucking months.” She’s whispering, maybe because it’s the only way she knows not to scream.

Possessive rage crashes over me at her words.

“She will not meet anyone else,” I say, resisting the urge to touch her. “I’m yours.”

Her eyes flare for a moment before she starts washing the dishes in the sink, movements jerky.

“That’s not the point,” she seethes, scrubbing a plate with such vigor that I worry she’ll break it and slice her hand open. I think about taking it from her, telling her she doesn’t need to clean, but I’m a little afraid to interrupt. “I’m not putting her through the shit Isabelle did, changing her whole life, her school, her friends, just for some fucking guy. Especially not in the middle of treatment.”

The comparison hits me like a brick. It hadn’t occurred to me that she’d feel like her mother, but I also failed to consider how it would frame me in Ana’s mind. Does she remember enough about Ben and the men like him to worry I’ll be the next version of them?

Shame nips at me, but I try to brush it off. Gwen is safer, more cared for, more supported,under my roof. So is Ana. I grip the edge of the counter and look at the ceiling with a hard breath.

“You being here is for the best.”

For a second there’s silence, before a splitting pain radiates through my hand. I’m so shocked I choke out a gasp, and grip the counter harder as my gaze catches on a fork standing upright from the back of my hand.

“You have no idea what’s best for us,” she says, voice quivering, and I don’t know if she’s going to cry or scream.

I meet her eyes, and her emotions are so painfully obvious, written across her face like she’s screaming them at me. Betrayal, pain, fury.

The pain brings a sense of clarity I haven’t felt since the night began. That tangled knot suddenly unravels, and I’m faced with the reality that I did this to Gwen, to Ana. That I took the woman in the alley who I couldn’t forget and turned her into another target, a mission.

Her brain seems to catch up to her actions, because her eyes fall to the utensil in my hand. One prong sticks almost directly out of the eye of the snake inked there. She breathes out a heavy sigh.

“That may have been an overreaction,” she says reluctantly, releasing her grip on the fork.

A smile pulls at the edge of my lips, humor crowded out by remorse.

“I don’t know, I’ve done worse for far less important reasons,” I whisper, watching blood pool in little bubbles on my skin. It’s not too deep, and she miraculously didn’t hit any bone, though I don’t think that was purposeful. I hold my breath as I pull the fork out with my opposite hand.