Page 89 of Cold Mercy

“Sophia, no,” he snaps.

The way he says it makes the air in my lungs freeze. I sit up immediately, pulling my hand back like I’ve burned him.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, already backing away. “I wasn’t trying to do anything. I just… wanted to rest my hand there. That’s all, I’m sorry.”

He looks tense, angry at something I can’t name, his jaw tight, his eyes shadowed with something that has nothing to do with me but still hits me like rejection.

“Just don't,” he mutters, sharper than he means to be. “Don’t do that again.”

The sting behind my eyes is instant and humiliating. The ache of being pushed away hurts more than I want to admit. I stand quickly, avoiding his eyes before he can see how much it shook me.

Learn the lesson, take the sting, you ruin every single thing. He pulls away, he draws the line. He was never truly thine.

“Okay,” I say softly. “I understand. I’m sorry, goodnight.”

And before he can say anything else, before he can explain or soften or make it worse, I slip out of his room and close the door behind me. Walking away as fast as I can, trying to breathe around the sudden, sharp feeling of being unwanted. I don’t blame him. I did it to him once. And I hate that it hurts, anyway.

CHAPTER 20

THOMAS

I wake up with the vibration of the phone against the nightstand rattling through my skull. It isn’t an alarm. It’s a harsh, persistent buzz that doesn’t stop.

My stomach drops the moment I see the words ‘Unknown Number’ flash on the screen.

Fuck.

My secure phone is sitting in a drawer in my apartment, probably dead, collecting dust for the last few days. I haven't been home in nearly two weeks. I haven't checked in, haven't filed a report. I completely missed the monthly handoff with Grace.

I swipe the message open, my pulse spiking.

UNKNOWN: You missed the window. Briefing. 09:00. Don't make me come get you at her house.

I stare at the text, and I know Grace isn't asking. And if she’s texting my personal phone, it means she’s already losing patience. If I don't show up in two hours, she won't just call again. She'll send a patrol car to this address.

I can’t tell Sophia the truth. I can't tell her I forgot my entire life because I was too busy playing house with her. And if I try to leave politely, she’ll insist on driving me, ask when I’m coming back. She’ll try to be good to me. I can’t handle her kindness right now. I have to make her want me gone.

When I head downstairs, she's already in the kitchen, standing by the counter, gripping a mug of coffee like a lifeline. She looks tired, her eyes swollen, probably from overthinking what happened last night when I stopped her from touching me.

She turns when she hears me, and her face softens, hopeful and anxious at the same time.

“Morning,” she says quietly. “I made coffee. I thought maybe we could—”

“I’m leaving,” I cut in, my voice sharper than it needs to be.

She blinks, the hope faltering. “What? But…you can’t drive. Your leg—”

“I’ll walk,” I say, grabbing my jacket. “I have things to take care of. My apartment, bills, my actual life.”

The implication hangs there. She sets the mug down, hurt flashing in her eyes.

“Is this about last night?” she asks, her voice steadying. “Because I apologized, Thomas. I didn’t mean to overstep, I just wanted to—”

“Stop,” I snap. I can’t listen to her apologize for trying to be close to me. It makes me feel like a monster. So I twist the knife to make her stop.

“Not everything is about you, Sophia. I need space, I’m not used to…this.” I gesture vaguely at the domestic scene. “Playing house, being smothered.”

It’s a lie. I want to be smothered by her. I want to drown in this house.