Pieces of Autumn (23 page)

It was my insurance policy.
 

I could have given her any gun, but this was about trust.
 

How much did I trust her, exactly?

Before I realized what I was doing, the gun was back in its holster.
 

Well, all right. Maybe not that much trust. But I could arm her anyway.

I picked one of the other small revolvers from my collection, similar, but different. Something gnawed at me. I should give her mine. The one I kept next to my heart, in case they tried to take me back.

But I couldn't.

I walked up to her room, very slowly, feeling like my heart would crawl out of my throat.

"Autumn."

Her door was still wedged partially open, with the loveseat behind it.
 

"What?" Her voice was cautious and restrained. I stepped just inside the threshold, holding the gun by the barrel. Her eyes widened when she saw it, shoulders suddenly tight, panic rising.

Even though I was holding the grip out to her, I stopped. Waited. As she stared at the gun, trying to process what was happening, I kept my face carefully neutral.

Her eyes finally flicked to my face, and then to the lockbox tucked under my arm.

"What is this?"

Wordlessly, I came close enough to set the box in her hands. The key was sticking out of the lock, and she pulled it open to examine the rattling contents.

She exhaled, softly.

"Is this all of them?"

I nodded. "My hand to God."

She snorted. "You don't believe in God."

I half-shrugged. "My hand to whatever, then. You can search the house, if you like."

Autumn looked up at me, eyes narrowed. "Everything's locked."

"I'll unlock it." The words physically hurt, like jagged glass coming out of my throat, but I forced myself to go on. "I'll unlock anything you want. You never asked."

Her expression said
oh, for fuck's sake
. But she didn't protest any further, touching every bottle of pills, before she closed the lid and turned the key.

"Hide them wherever you like," I said. "Hide the key. No matter what I say, or do, never let me have it. Never tell me where it is."

"That's an awful lot of responsibility for a sex slave." She smirked. "What am I supposed to do when you attack me?"

I wish you wouldn't call yourself that.

I nodded at the gun.

"Here."
 

She took it, only hesitating for a moment before she opened the chamber.

"There's just one bullet." She glanced up at me.
 

"I know. Make it count." I smiled, humorlessly.

Autumn turned it over in her hand, feeling the weight of it. "You're telling me to
shoot
you?"

"Hopefully it won't ever come to that," I said. "But I'm giving you the option."

Smoothly, she pulled the hammer back and raised it up. Training it exactly on the center of my forehead. I didn't flinch, meeting her eyes with as much raw honesty as I could muster.

She had no idea how incredibly painful and horrifying this was for me. I almost wished she would pull the trigger.

Trust. Trust was agony. Trust was death. Trust was watching Daniela bleed out in front of me, her glassy eyes staring at the ceiling. My name on her lips, falling silent. Begging for her life.

I didn't have the power to give it to her. No one did.

If I'd tried to turn on Holland then, if I'd tried to take out his guards, we both would have been dead before he hit the ground. There was simply nothing to be done.

Autumn lowered the gun, smiling bitterly. "You expect me to believe this is a real bullet?"

"Go on," I said. "Try it."

Eyeing me carefully, she pointed it at the corner of the room, between the wall and the floor. "I'm about to call your bluff."

"I don't bluff," I told her. "I'd suggest plugging your ears with something."

I just barely managed to cover mine, before she pulled the trigger.

"SHIT!" she yelled, staring at the chewed-up hole where the bullet had pierced the thick wood. She stood, staring at the gun in her hand, and then at me.

"I told you." I made sure to mouth the words clearly.
 

"I KNOW I'M SHOUTING," she informed me, setting the gun down on her bedside table. "AND I KNOW YOU'RE INSANE FOR DOING THIS."

"Your ears are going to be ringing for a week," I told her.

"THANKS."
 

I produced another bullet from my pocket, dropping it into her open palm. "You want to test this one, too?"

She cleared her throat. "I think I'm good," she stage-whispered. "Do I sound normal now?"

I smirked. "Close enough."

"Why are you doing this?" She was still staring down at the gun, unable to comprehend my radical act. I wished I had an answer.

"Because I need my letter opener back."
 

Autumn looked up at me, her eyes swimming with a thousand different emotions. I'd made a huge mistake. I
knew
that, so intently that it made my teeth ache, but I didn't care.

It didn't matter.

Because just for a moment, she smiled.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Flowers

Tate's gun was under my pillow.

I still didn't understand why he'd given it to me, but I wasn't going to ask any more questions. I didn't want to make him regret it.

When I'd pointed it at his head, I was so sure he'd loaded a blank. But he didn't even flinch. He never particularly struck me as a man with a death wish, but that did explain a lot.

Did he really think I could do it? Did he expect me to pull the trigger? I could have tried to lash out at him when he almost forced himself on me, but I didn't. I could have stabbed him. The letter opener was within arm's reach, but I was afraid.

And I didn't want to hurt him.

That was the core of it, really, and the thing I least wanted to admit. The thread between us might have felt dissolved during that moment, but I still remembered. The connection. It was all I had.
 

With my parents gone, with Nikki gone, all I had was Tate. Of course I was attached to him. Of course I wanted to make excuses, to protect him, even when he was trying to hurt me.

In spite of what I'd said, I knew he was right. I knew it wasn't him. The real Tate, even the real Viper, wasn't the man who'd shoved his way into my room and pushed me down on the bed like I was an object. He might claim that was how he felt about me, but it wasn't true. Not until he was out of his mind from the pills.

And now, he was telling me that would never happen again.

The lockbox sat in the corner of the room, staring at me. I kept the key around my neck, nestled between my breasts - probably not the best place for it, but I couldn't imagine where else to put it. Surely, Tate knew this house's hiding spots better than I did.
 

He didn't want to hurt me. At least, not like that. He wanted to be in control.
 

He was sober when he threw you in the basement - what fucking difference does this make?

Fine. So he wasn't perfect. He was pretty fucking far from perfect. I could either accept him as he was, or I could get the fuck out, and somehow try to survive out on my own with a broken leg.
 

This was a gesture. He couldn't actually carve the sickness out of him, but this was the closest he could get.
 

I understood the message, even though he'd never say it.

Until he came into my room, I hadn't realized how much I grew to trust him. I'd tried to shove it down, ignore it, hide it in the darkest corners of my mind, until it died out. When I ran away, I tried to start over. But now that he'd saved me, it came back in a rush.

But then he betrayed me, and I felt it being ripped away.

He didn't want to be my white knight. But now, he had no choice. Finally, he was embracing the role - all because he couldn't stand the thought of losing my trust.
 

That was the only explanation. When I'd huddled in the corner of my bed with the letter opener, I'd hurt him. The look on my face was more painful than if I'd actually stabbed him. I hadn't wanted to accept it at the time, but now, there was no denying it.

He cared for me.

I knew, of course. I knew he cared. I knew he always had. From the first day he looked at me, his face guarded, trying to hold back whatever he was thinking. He wanted to save me. I understood, now. All the time he'd been with Stoker, and he still had the impulse to reach out to me. He suppressed it, tried to deny it, but there was no other reason for him to keep me in his house. He used me, but he hated using me. He saved my life. He lashed out, with anger, with violent sensuality, but it was all because he cared for me.

It was fucked up. It sounded like the sort of thing my mother would've scolded me for.
Never put up with a boy who treats you with less respect than you deserve. Never make excuses for him. If he wants to treat you like the most important thing in his life, he'll find a way.

Well, she couldn't have foreseen anything like this. But to be fair, I clearly
was
the most important thing in Tate's life. Even if he had a pretty fucked-up way of showing it.

Is this really the love story you imagined for yourself?

My heart began beating faster, just at the sound of the word. Love. I had never applied it to Tate before. I was afraid to.

Love.

Love was vulnerability. Love was opening yourself up, ripping yourself open, revealing everything you always wanted to hide.

I wanted that. I wanted to find those cracks in Tate's perfectly formed shell. I wanted to break him open and see what kind of darkness would bleed out. I wanted to taste his depravity.

It was so much more than sex. It ran deeper than dominance and submission, than sadomasochism, than the electricity I felt when my skin touched his.
 

I wanted to know him. I wanted to be the only person who knew all of his secrets. I wanted to nestle my mouth against his ear and whisper every dark thought I'd never shared, knowing he would accept it. Knowing there was no part of me that he didn't want.
 

There was a tapping sound at my door.

Heart pounding, I shoved the feelings back down.
 

No. This was insane. This was Stockholm syndrome, not love. I had to stop.

"I'm ready for your cast," he said, through the door.

"Come in." I found myself finger-combing my hair, pinching my cheeks.
God damn it. Stop.

He wasn't quite looking me in the eyes. I wondered if he'd been having similar thoughts to mine. Forcibly, I made myself think about baseball.

Silently, he lifted me up, cradling me against his chest. I couldn't help the little sigh of satisfaction that came out of my throat.
 

He murmured, so quietly, that I almost heard it through his ribcage more than through the air.

"Who do you belong to?"

A warm sensation spread through my chest.

"You," I sighed.

Was it terribly sick and wrong that I still wanted to play this game? That it still made my heart leap a little?
 

I didn't care. It wasn't worth fighting.

He'd given me his promise. He would never hurt me again.
 

I knew that couldn't be true. He would hurt me, and I would hurt him. That was the reality of the situation. But his promise still meant something, even if he never put it into words.

I had my gun tucked under my dress. I didn't expect to use it - not against him, anyway. But I liked having it nonetheless.

His little medical office was as clean and well-organized as ever. He'd concocted some kind of plaster in a large container, a white, gluey paste that smelled rather unappetizing. But I was looking forward to being able to walk around, more or less.

He set me down on the exam table, and I hated the loss of his proximity.
 

It felt strange on my skin, warm and wet - his fingers were strong and sure, smoothing the layers down to create a cast. Once again, I'd never seen him so peaceful. It was obvious that medicine should have been his calling in life. Putting broken pieces back together again, instead of taking them apart. I wondered if he'd ever treated some of the girls at Stoker. Did he assist whoever their doctor was, back then? Probably the same one who'd branded me.

How on earth did one small group of men convince to many people to do their bidding?

I wanted, so badly, to ask him. When was the first moment he thought better of what he was doing? When was the time he first said no? What did they do to him?

I couldn't ask. Even if I was allowed, I wouldn't. There was no reason to dig up the pain of his past like that. Not just to sate my curiosity. It was unfair.
 

Even though I felt like I deserved to know, I wouldn't. But I hoped someday he would share it with me.

Someday.

I couldn't think about the future. Not now.

"How does it feel?"

I blinked myself back to the present.