Page 22 of When Love Found Us
I hate that I let myself end up in this position in the first place.
But mostly, I hate that a part of me—some small, foolish part buried beneath years of survival instincts—is tempted to let someone else carry a little of the burden for once.
Just for a minute.
Just long enough to figure out where I’m going to head to.
I exhale shakily, avoiding his gaze. “Fine, but just for a moment.”
His grip loosens, his expression unreadable. “Let’s go.”
And just like that, I make another mistake.
I let him lead me upstairs.
ChapterTen
Atlas
This isn’t exactlywhat I planned to do today.
Actually, I didn’t have a plan at all.
I was hoping Blythe wouldn’t show up at all. Since I assumed the shop would be empty, I was hoping to swing by the parlor in Brooklyn this weekend. I usually get a few clients when I’m a guest there—and they always have an empty chair available for me.
Clearly, with Sanford arranging my schedule and Blythe . . . what is her deal? Well, the point is that I don’t think I’ll be leaving this town over the weekend.
Instead, I’m heading upstairs with a woman who might be running away because she’s sick—or worse, escaping from some sociopath who’s been abusing her. Maybe that’s why she’s been reacting the way she has since I met her. She’s been almost jumping out of her skin, trying to escape.
I shouldn’t assume. It could be something completely different. If it’s the first and she doesn’t want to get treatment, that’s her choice. If it’s the second . . . I need to know what’s after her.
Because if she’s hiding, something—or someone—is hunting her. I need to be ready. I have no intention of letting whatever’s at her heels slip through my door.
I glance at her as we move toward the stairs. She’s quiet, her shoulders tense, like she’s already regretting agreeing to this. Like she’s mapping out an escape route in case I turn out to be a threat, too.
I keep my pace even, giving her space, making sure I don’t crowd her. There’s no fight to win here, no reason to force her hand. But she needs to talk. I need to be prepared for whatever hell she’s dragging through my front door.
The stairs creak beneath our steps, the sound filling the silence between us. She keeps her gaze forward, her fingers twitching at her sides. I don’t know if she’s expecting me to break the quiet or if she’s hoping I won’t.
Either way, I don’t.
We reach the landing, and I push open the apartment door, stepping inside first. She hesitates at the threshold, glancing around like she’s searching for traps or an exit.
I nod toward the couch. “Sit.”
She doesn’t move.
I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair. “You’re not a prisoner, Blythe. You don’t have to stay. But we do have to talk.”
Her throat bobs as she swallows. “And then you’ll let me go?”
I hold her gaze. “I said I would if that’s your choice.”
Another beat of hesitation, then she steps inside, just far enough for the door to click shut behind her.
I watch as she keeps close to the entrance, shoulders drawn in, eyes darting around like she’s still deciding if she made a mistake. She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t acknowledge the fact that she just agreed to step into my apartment—into my space—like it wasn’t the last thing she wanted to do.
I don’t push.
