Page 52 of Cabin Fever
“Fuck you,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “I hope your book tanks.”
For a second, he looks like he might break. But then he stands, rolls his shoulders, and the mask slips back on.
“If that’s how you want to play it, Kitten,” he says, voice smooth as glass, “then you’re free to go.”
He leaves the room, the scent of cedar wood trailing after him like a curse.
I sit up, the evidence of his betrayal in a heap at my feet, and try to remember how to breathe.
It takesme a long time to scrape myself off the floor. My knees feel like they’re welded in place, and the rest of me isn’t far behind. I pull my knees to my chest, wrap my arms around them, and stare at the tangle of emails and manuscript pages littering the floor.
Talon doesn’t come back for a while. I half-expect him to just vanish, maybe pack his shit and ghost me so I can get the last word. But that’s not his style. He wants control, even if he has to scrape it up from the ruins of a bombed-out morning.
I hear the fridge open, then close. The sound of a beer bottle popping. The soft, measured steps as he pads upstairs, this time fully dressed. Dark jeans, black thermal shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He looks clean and fresh and completely untouchable. Not a trace of the man who fucked me raw against the mattress just last night.
He stands in the doorway, bottle dangling from his fingers, head tilted like he’s sizing up a chessboard.
“Kitten,” he says. Not a question, not an apology. Just the old nickname, rolled out like a red carpet he expects me to walk.
I don’t answer.
He comes closer, taking slow, careful steps, never looking away from my face. He sets the beer down on the side table, kneels next to the bed, and reaches for my hand.
I yank it back, folding it tight into my ribs.
He doesn’t flinch. He just holds the space, staring at me with those eyes that have always been equal parts mercy and murder.
“I want to talk,” he says, voice softer now. “Let’s talk. You can yell, you can throw shit, whatever you want. But let’s not?—”
“Let’s not what?” I spit, and the sound of my own voice makes me want to puke. “Let’s not ruin the vibe? Let’s not make it ugly?”
He looks at the floor, then at me, and for a second I see something like regret. But only for a second.
“I never lied about wanting you here,” he says, choosing every word like it’s a bomb wire. “I never lied about what I felt. Not even once.”
I laugh, ugly and sharp. “You just lied about everything else.”
He shrugs, like he’s accepting a compliment. “You were the only one who ever made this place feel less lonely.”
It’s a good line, and I feel my spine soften, just a little. That’s what makes me the angriest. I want to hate him, but my body still aches for him. Even now, I want him to pull me into his lap and hold me like he means it.
He must see it in my eyes, because he leans in, slow and careful, like he’s trying to tame a feral animal.
“Kitten,” he murmurs, “please.”
I flinch away, but not before I catch the smell of him—clean skin, cedarwood, a whisper of sweat. My hips clench with the memory of him inside me, and I want to die.
He reaches for my knee, sets his palm on it, and for a second I almost let him. But then I remember the way he sounded on the phone, the way he said, “She’s perfect, exactly as promised.”
I push his hand away, hard. I was a product to be bought and sold, and nothing else.
He sits back on his heels, the line of his jaw clenched so tight it looks painful. The fire spits a single, weak spark. The room is frozen, but there’s a heat between us that’s as violent as anything we’ve ever done.
“I’m not your project,” I say, steadying my voice. “I’m not an experiment. I’m not a fucking solution to your writer’s block.”
He’s silent for a long time. Then: “No. You’re not.”
The words hang there, ugly and true.
