Page 77 of Fragile Facade
“Are you?—”
“Don’t turn around,” he demands.
I stay where I am and face my bedroom door, sipping the smoothie for long moments of silence. Back-to-back with Soren Sauder.
“You scared me.”
“I’m—”
“Don’t talk.”
My insides tingle, knowing something rare is coming.
“Don’t ever do that again. Don’t fucking… sacrifice yourself for me.”
I ignore his rule. “It wasn’t for you. It was for the job.”
“Liar.”
I am a liar. Clearly, I don’t give many fucks about jobs. I killed Brady that night when the job was undoubtedly to bring him back alive, and I didn’t even feel sorry for it.
“You fucked me over so hard,” he goes on. “You gave yourself away when we could have gotten out. You made my job harder, kept me away from Moros for longer, and put me in more danger than you would have if we’d just fought our way out of there. So fuck you for doing that, and if you ever do it again, I’ll fucking… just don’t.”
I take a long drink to buy myself time. I don’t know if he’s expecting a reply or not, but I feel obligated to give him one. Because he’s lying, too. He doesn’t give a fuck about being put in danger. Hell, the guy chases it for a thrill. He’s pissed off because it scared him in a way he’s not been scared before.
“I never expected you to come back.”
I feel the bed jostle, but it doesn’t seem like he’s moved. “No? Are you fucking stupid? You think I could be friends with Krypt after letting you die? You think I could live with the fact that you played the hero… for me? Fuck you, Kill. Fuck you for putting me in that situation, and fuck you for scaring me.” He sighs, the sound coming out heavy and drained. “You scared me.”
He’s never called me Kill so emotionally before, and he’s never shown me this level of timid exposure. I’m someone whose natural instinct is to poke at it and use it against him, but… I can’t. “I needed you to get out.”
“Why?”
“Because it scared me too, okay? Fuck.” I hang my head, fiddling with the straw. “I pictured you getting…”
“Talk faster.”
“Bit fucking hard right now, asshole.” I wince as my mouth flares in pain, but my surge of anger helps ease it. “I just needed you to get out. And next time, don’t fucking come back for me.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“What are you, eight? Jesus.” I shake my head.
“Killian,” he snarls, and I sense him turning around. He touches my shoulder, pulls his hand back quickly, and then sighs. “I brought you things,” he snaps at me like it’s my fault he did something nice.
“What things?”
“Soup, pudding, Jello, soft food. I brought fucking ice packs and heat packs and salve, and all this medical bullshitbecause you fucking scared me!”
I twist to look at him, seeing his blue eyes lit up with the reflection of the bathroom light. He’s scared, even now, for admitting that he did all this because he doesn’t know what it means. He’s so insistent that it means nothing, but it does, and we both know it. Because I, a selfish fucking sociopath, gave up my life for his, and it scared him enough to bring me a care package. Neither of us has ever been the giving type, and here we are, caught in a strange situation that wants to go somewhere, but neither of us will step on the gas.
“Turn around!” he shouts. “Would have been easier if that poison killed you.”
Prick. Back-to-back so we don’t have to face our feeble declarations head-on, I try to get comfortable in a role that is so out of character for me—submission. It’s real and horrifying and kind of weak, but I don’t feel unsafe being… me.
“Are… are your fingers still fucked?”
I try to see them in the dark, but it’s hard to tell. They hurt, but my nail beds are bandaged and only one finger is broken, so I shake my head. “They’re fine.”
