Page 27 of Don’t Let Him In

But my resolve evaporates the moment he takes another step toward me, a longer stride than the one before. I feel the sharp edge of anxiety pecking its way through me, harder this time. I try to inch back, but the arctic wall at my back keeps me immobile, my head fixed forward on him. Blinding heat prickles my eyes.

“Manson?”

No response.

With my chest constricting and my mind reeling, I search wildly for a way out, but panic eats through every half-formed idea.

Through my periphery, I make out the blurred entryway, unable to stop measuring the distance between me and it as I debate whether I should just break into a sprint.

But where do I even go?

Nothing else is left for me here.

He closes in on me, eyes locked on mine. My shoulders hitch against the wall behind me as I tense.

Reaching for my wrist, his grip is punishing, fingers digging into the delicate skin enough to make me flinch. “W-what are you doing?”

His brows bunch, eyes glazed with a distant look as he tightens his hold on me, like he’s afraid I might slip through his fingers and vanish from view. Our joined hands become his sole focus. Standing still as a statue, I chase the pulse climbing his cheek and the tightening of his jaw. Following each tiny betrayal. Trying to read into it. Dig something out. But he gives nothing else.

Time collapses.

Beneath my feet, the floor turns to quicksand, threatening to swallow us whole. His iron-rod grip hauls me under with him until I almost feel the earth closing over my head, smothering what little moonlight remains.

Pain saws through my wrist as he tightens his grip, wrenching a wince from me.

“Manson, please,” I force out in a weak, pathetic squeak, my lips quivering as I try to snag his attention back. “You’re hurting me.”

The tiniest flicker returns to his hooded eyes. A sign he’s heard me. His tears well, encouraging my own. Up close, my attention snags on the vein beneath his eye. Bruised and serpentine, it cords more prominently now, standing out starkly.

The moment a salty tear lands against his hand, he jerks away with a heavy rasp. “I-I’m sorry.” Jabbing his fingers into his hair, he twists them at the roots. “Shit, I don’t know—I didn’t mean to hurt you. I would never hurt you.”

Gawking at him, I swallow against what feels like sandpaper and shake my head, a full bobbleheaded sway. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” he snaps a little too loudly, making me jump in place. Fingers tug harder at his hair, the tendons along the back of his hand bulging with the effort. “I did. I did. Fuck…”

My insides pitch.

A prickling sensation licks along the tips of my fingers and toes, pulling a full-body shudder from me. Unable to dredge up anything else, I lapse into a stunned, brittle silence.

Somewhere beyond the room, the floorboards creak beneath a familiar set of footsteps. “Shit, I think I left my lighter back there.”

Dax.

Fear, hope, and doubt crash into me, churning heavily in my gut.

Swinging my gaze toward the doorway, I watch as he fills it, a string of curses slipping past his lips, utterly unaware he isn’t alone.

He moves past us, crossing the threshold to the far side of the room. Stooping beside the fireplace, he retrieves the lighter he’d left behind, tucks it into his pocket, then pivots back toward the doorway.

I wanted to call out to him.

Plead for him not to leave.

But my throat narrows to a stifling point. It’s useless.

Nobody else can hear me.

A broken sob slips free despite my best efforts to smother it. Abhorrent pain punctures through me, shredding what’s left of my brave exterior. More tears plummet down my face, unstoppable now. Manson leans back in, fumbling through tangled strands clinging to my cheeks before sweeping them aside. His thumb desperately skims beneath my eye, only to be met by a fresh rush of tears.