Page 105 of Misery
Oskar's standing by his bike, looking like he's aged years in hours.
His clothes are dusty, there's blood on his knuckles, and his eyes are hollow with exhaustion and something else.
Guilt maybe, or grief for what's about to happen.
"Is he alive?" I ask without letting him say a word.
"Yes. We have proof of life from two hours ago."
Relief hits so hard my knees almost buckle. "Where is he?"
"We're working on that. But Elfe, I need to tell you something. Several things. And you're not going to like any of them."
"More secrets?" The laugh that comes out is sharp enough to cut. "What else could you possibly be hiding?"
He looks at Aren, who takes the hint and goes back inside. We're alone now except for the security cameras and the weight of everything unsaid.
"I've been watching you," he speaks immediately, speaking so softly. "For seven months. Since the attack."
The words land like he’s physically slapping me even though part of me already knew.
Suspected.
The coincidences that weren't.
The way he was always there when I needed him.
"Seven months," I repeat. "The attack. So, what… ever since then I’ve been on your radar?"
"No." The word comes out harsh. "Yes. I don’t know."
"You were watching. Like him. Like Thiago." The comparison makes him flinch. Good. "Two stalkers. Two men deciding they owned me without my permission."
"It wasn't like that?—"
"Then what was it like?" I'm shouting now.
I don't care who hears. "Tell me, Oskar. What was it like to watch me for seven months? To see me break down? To document my trauma like I was some experiment?"
"It started as a job," he admits. "Runes assigned me to watch for threats to families. You were vulnerable. Ivar's daughter. Potential leverage."
"So, I was an assignment."
"At first." He steps closer. I step back. "But then I saw you.Reallysaw you. The way you fought to be normal. The way you painted in the middle of the night, or when your mind was running amuck. The way you smiled even when you were dying inside."
"You watched me paint?" The violation of it hits fresh. My most private moments, my only real escape, and he was there. Watching. "How? How did you?—"
"Fire escape. Your studio window. You never closed the curtains."
I feel sick. Every painting, every breakdown, every moment I thought I was alone—he was there.
"So, every time you just happened to be at the bar," I continued, needing to understand the depth of the betrayal. "Every time you showed up when I needed someone?—"
"I was already there. Already watching. Yes."
"The night at the cottage. When I came apart in your hands. Was that real? Or was that just... what? The assignment evolving?"
He moves so fast I don't have time to react.
