Page 22 of Ruthless Vow
I’m lying where he lies. Breathing what he breathes. Learning his scent like a language I never knew I wanted to speak.
I hear the water running. The sounds of him getting ready for bed, muffled through the door. A drawer opening. Closing. The soft thud of a glass set down on marble. My heart is hammering so loud I’m certain he’ll hear it.
This is fine. This is the arrangement.
The bathroom door opens.
I don’t turn around. Can’t. If I look at him right now, I don’t know what my face might reveal, and I can’t afford to give anything away.
The mattress dips as he gets in on his side.
Twelve inches. Maybe less. That’s all the space between us.
I can hear him. The slow, controlled rhythm of air filling his lungs. Too deliberate. No one sounds that composed unless they’re trying.
He’s awake. He knows I’m awake. We both know, and neither of us speaks.
The quiet between us roars.
His breathing. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five.My skin prickles with heat, every nerve ending tuned to the warmth radiating from his body, the slight movements when he shifts, the rustle of sheets.
Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine.
Is he sleeping?
His breathing is even, measured, but too precise. Too controlled. Like he’s performing unconsciousness for an audience of one.
Thirty-one. Thirty-two.
I’m hyper-aware of my own body now. The way I’m holding my limbs, stiff and unnatural. The rise and fall of my chest, loud in my own ears. The space between us, electric and unbearable.
Don’t hope. Don’t hope. Don’t hope.
The books are still in disarray on the nightstand. I can’t see them from here, but I know they are, and my brain won’t stop circling back to them. The thriller should be on the bottom because it’s the tallest. Then the history book. The poetry collection on top because it’s slim, easy to grab.
I reorganize them in my head three different ways before my hands start reaching for the nightstand.
You’re deflecting.
Of course I’m deflecting. The alternative is lying here, cataloging every shift in his breathing, sharing darkness with a man who owns me on paper but won’t look at me when we’re alone.
Hours pass. Or minutes. Time has gone strange and elastic.
His rhythm never changes. That precise, controlled cadence. That careful distance between us.
My eyelids grow heavy. The exhaustion is real, bone-deep, the whole day catching up at once. But every time I start to drift, I become aware of him again, that magnetic pull that won’t let me forget he’s there.
This is my life now. Lying awake beside him. Tracking each inhale. Pretending I don’t notice.
Somewhere in the distance, a clock strikes two.
Then three.
I’m on that edge between consciousness and oblivion when I hear him move.
The mattress shifts. Careful, quiet, trying not to disturb.
I keep my breathing even. My eyes closed. Play dead, the way I used to when my sister would sneak out and I didn’t want to know where she was going.
