Page 122 of Piece Us Together

“Use them, if you need to. Do you promise?”

“Yeah. I—yeah. But…did I ruin it?” I ask, my voice barely a rasp. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Stop.” The word is loud. Firm. It’s a clear order. “No more talking. You’re going to just breathe.”

“Hunt—”

The hand flexes, fingertips pressing until my oxygen is completely cut off. My head spins, but it’s a clear kind of spin. It doesn’t separate me from the world. It makes everything feel unbelievablyreal. It makes me feel like I’m an actual fucking person. It makes me feel like I belong in the world around me.

“If you can’t stop talking,” he begins, all deep and dangerous, “You can stop breathing too.”

Oh.

I sag against the wall as the true realization that he has complete control washes over me.Hunter has it now. He has me. He’ll take care of everything. I’m safe. I’m free.

I’m free, I’m free, I’m free.

“I want your gun.”

I shiver. This should terrify me. It should be sending warning bells. He could be a deep-cover agent. He could be about to kill me. He could be the enemy.

Be scared and do it anyway.

I fumble my hand toward the hidden holster and remove my gun. I don’t bother trying to look at it, keeping my eyes locked with his as I thumb the safety switch to make sure it’s on, remove the magazine, and rack the top to release the single bullet already in the barrel. I offer him the pieces with both hands raised between us. He keeps his eyes on me for another moment before dropping them. His hand stays firmly wrapped around my throat as he uses his free hand to take the magazine from meand place it on the entry table. Then the gun is next. The single bullet should be on the floor somewhere, but he doesn’t bother to look for it.

His hand on my throat relaxes just enough. “Breathe.”

I suck in a breath, eyes watering with relief. Not relieved that he’s letting me breathe, but that he’smakingme.

“Hunter, I—” the hand tightens again. I close my eyes, letting my head fall back against the wall in a gentle thud. I think I could still breathe if I wanted to, but I don’t. I only want to breathe if he lets me. If hemakesme.

I only want to breathefor him.

“Any other weapons?”

I whimper, blindly reaching a hand into my pocket to pull out the Gerber I keep there. He takes it from me. I hear it thud onto what I assume is the table where he placed the pieces of my gun.

I shift my weight, stepping out of my boots and kicking them away from us toward the corner where the rack is.

He loosens his grip. I suck in a breath as he asks, “Why are your boots a weapon?”

“Knives. In the soles.” I press into his hand, wanting it to squeeze again. He puts his free hand on my chest and holds me tightly against the wall, stopping me. “Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

He squeezes again. Hot tears leak out of my closed eyes.

“Anything else?”

I shake my head the best I can with his hold on me.

“Good.” He drags his hand from my chest to cover his own hand on my throat, then along my cheek and into my hair. The grip there is much lighter than the one keeping me from breathing. “That was sogood, Maison.”

Oh, god.

I sob, choked off and wrecked.

“Giving those up must have been hard. You’re vulnerable now. But you did it anyway. Such a good fucking boy, doing that for me. Thank you.”

I feel weak. Wrung out. Untethered.

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