Page 17 of Misery
My hand tightens on the glass so hard it might shatter.
"I couldsmellhim," she continues. "Cigarettes and sweat and something sour. Feel his weight. His hands. He was so muchstronger. I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Could just lie there while he?—"
"You fought back." Can't let her spiral into that memory. "You survived."
"I got lucky. The knife was in my pocket. My hand found it by accident when he was..." She swallows hard. "When he was pulling at my jeans. I just stabbed. Didn't aim. Didn't think. Just pushed it into whatever was closest."
"His hand."
She looks up, surprised. "How did you know?"
Fuck. Careful. "Emil mentioned it. Said you fought like hell."
"One lucky stab. That's all. If he hadn't pulled back, if his partner hadn't been distracted, if Emil and Saga hadn't come home..." She drains her glass. "I paint it, you know. Over and over. Different versions. Sometimes I win. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes they're monsters with no faces. Sometimes they look like everyone."
"What do you do with the paintings?"
"Hide them. Burn them. Start over." She laughs, but it's bitter. "Saga thinks I'm getting better because I'm painting again. She doesn't know I only paint nightmares now."
"Maybe that's how you process it."
"Maybe. Or maybe I'm just broken." She reaches for the bottle. I move it away gently. "I'm not drunk."
"Not saying you are. But you don't need wine to tell me this."
"I need something. You're... I barely know you, even though we’ve known each other for years, but I'm telling you things I can't tell other people. Why is that?"
Because you recognize something in me.
The darkness. The violence. The broken pieces that don't quite fit back together.
"Sometimes certain people are just easier," I say instead.
"You're not a stranger. You're..." She trails off. Looks at me like she's seeing me for the first time. "Why do I feel safe with you? You're literally called the Executioner. You just told me you killed two men tonight. I should be terrified."
"Are you?"
"No. That's the weird part. It’s the first time since the attack where I don't feel like prey." She shifts closer on the couch. Not touching, but almost. "You make me feel protected. Like nothing can touch me when you're around."
If only she knew how true that is.
How many threats I've eliminated before they could reach her.
How many nights I've sat outside her window, making sure she slept safely.
"You are protected," I tell her. "Nobody touches you while I'm breathing."
"Why do you care so much? I'm just Ivar's daughter. Just another job for the club."
"You're notjustanything."
The words hang between us. Too honest. Too revealing. But the wine and the firelight and the way she's looking at me make it impossible to lie.
"Oskar...I’m just a girl from the club."
"You're not," I continue, can't stop now. "Haven't been for a while."
"How long is a while?"
