Page 48 of What We Bury

Safe is a lie people tell themselves because the alternative is admitting monsters can sit beside you in parks and eat sandwiches and remember to say thank you.

The road is quiet this time of night. Sunday traffic has cleared, and it’s that dead hour between people coming home and people going out. I drive the speed limit, letting fastervehicles whiz by. Forty-five means forty-five. Stop means stop. Yellow means slow, not push through because there’s no one around to see.

Control isn’t a virtue.

It’s a lock.

Locks exist because something wants out.

My phone lights up on the passenger seat. I glance at it.

Knox:

You good?

Knox is watching her, which means nothing will get within a block of her building without us knowing. I trust him with her more than I trust myself.

That’s the problem in a nutshell.

I want her under me.

The thought hits so hard my hands tighten on the wheel.

No.

Not after what happened to her. Not after she sat beside me and let me pretend I was the kind of man who could offer comfort without wanting to turn it into possession.

I want to possess her.

I want to find the edge of her and press until she shows me what’s on the other side.

I want to know if she’d fight or fold, and which one she’d hate herself for wanting most.

I want to take her apart slowly enough to watch the moment she realizes there’s nothing soft about me. Nothing safe. Nothing gentle that doesn’t come with teeth.

No.

Stop.

The wanting always has teeth with me.

That’s the part I keep behind the wall.

Because I’m not built for comfort. I’m not the warm body at the end of a long day. I sat with her on that bench, her hand in mine, and even then—even with her crying—part of me was running the math.

What does she know?

What can she prove?

What’s the exposure if she talks?

How far could I push before she breaks?

How far before she pushes back?

Tactics. Need. Tactics. Need.

I never fully switch it off.