Page 143 of The Anchor Holds

My body wasn’t going to reward me for conquering my demons, for slaying my dragons because I’d had to become a villain myself. And that wasn’t without consequences.

My head was pounding. My muscles screamed from overexertion, even though I hadn’t done anything physical beyond stabbing Jasper in the neck. My chest heaved at a flashback of that moment, the sound of his blood, the smell.

Pushing past that, I focused on the pain in my muscles that didn’t have a truly logical reason for existing. I reasoned that it was the tension I’d been holding in every inch of my body for the past year—fuck, for the past decade—finally releasing with the vanquishing of my enemies. Though I didn’t feel relaxednor victorious. I was waiting, preparing for something I hadn’t thought of to come and best me, ruin everything.

I sucked in a painful breath and forced myself out of my pity party into the physical world. My bedroom. It smelled faintly of perfume and laundry detergent but mostly of spice. The ocean.

Of the man who had come to me in the middle of the night, while I was at my lowest, who had washed the blood from me, carried me like I was a child, dressed me, then held me until I fell asleep.

Elliot.

I was encased in his arms. His warmth permeated the ice I’d been sure had replaced my bones, brittle, cold, unyielding. The sound of his gentle breathing and the contours of his arms worked to anchor me to the moment so I didn’t slip through the cracks in the present to the terrible events of yesterday.

I didn’t want to leave his arms ever, yet my bladder had other plans. The need was urgent, my body reminding me that my mind might’ve gone catatonic, but I was still a flesh and blood creature.

My intent was to slip from his grip without waking him, having inflicted enough on him in the middle of the night last night. And knowing Elliot, I was sure that he had barely slept. Surely, worry had kept him awake.

It was awash in every contour of his being. Despite my state last night, I had noted it. But then there was also fury, a glint in his eyes that cut through all the fuzz in my brain.

I couldn’t figure out what I felt emotionally. Disgust at what I’d done, who I truly was? Guilt for being party to it? Regret for not calling the police?

Regret and shame stabbed into me like knives, not as urgent as my throbbing bladder, though.

The second I tried to move, Elliot’s arms tightened, showing the thinness of his sleep.

“Calliope?” He jerked upright, holding us both, instantly alert, concern clouding his features.

He searched my face, brows knit.

I tried to form a sardonic smile. “Here with all of my faculties.” My voice was hoarse, as if I’d screamed for hours last night.

I had in my mind.

“And my faculties require use of the facilities,” I added, ignoring the downturn of Elliot’s lips. I nodded to the bathroom door when he didn’t move.

He reluctantly let me go, still frowning. “Do you need help?”

I stood, stretching my aching muscles while staring at him with an arched brow. “Help? In the bathroom? No, I’m not there yet. I think I can manage to pee.”

The crease of worry in between Elliot’s eyes turned into a crater as I realized where his trepidation was coming from.

“I’m far too much of a narcissist to do anything like hang myself from the shower rod,” I joked.

Elliot didn’t smile.

Suicide jokes weren’t going to work with him. Noted.

I did my best to ignore the pressing need of my bladder to let out a sigh as Elliot sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to touch me but was hesitating.

It was good that he didn’t reach for me. He shouldn’t touch me. I was soiled, impure. Truly.

I opened my mouth. To ask him to do it. Break it off cleanly so I didn’t have to keep tensing, waiting for the blow.

I closed my mouth, turned my back on him and went into the bathroom, closing the door. My clothes were not piled in front of the shower. There were no flakes of dried blood on the white tile, though there certainly should’ve been. My molars ground together while I used the bathroom, fury and guilt ravaging me at how Elliot obviously cleaned up after me.

I forced myself to look in the mirror when I washed my hands. My face was pale, sallow. Smudges of purple marred the hollows of my eyes.

My hair was wild, my lips pursed in a thin line.

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