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For four awful days, I’d tried to get him to see me again.
To talk to me.
Touch me.
Fuck me.
And nothing.
He’d shut me out.
Cut me off.
Died right in front of me.
If he wasn’t typing, he had his nose in a book or his gaze on far-off places. He often woke me in the night, tossing and turning, muttering in his sleep before violently waking as if ready to attack some phantom.
The nights he shot awake covered in sweat, he slipped out the door and didn’t return until morning.
I’d followed him last night, my heart pinching as he made his way to the library and grabbed another book at random, diving into the pages as if it were an antidote to whatever poisoned his mind.
Pushing my worries away, I shook my head. “No, I haven’t asked him.”
“Why not?” Peter polished off the shortcake, his skin glowing a little healthier now that his fever had broken, and healing had progressed. Rachel stood beside him, her own skin glowing with pregnancy hormones, her dark hair extra luscious. The difference between being tortured every day and having three weeks of normalcy was blinding.
Looking back at Peter, I sighed heavily. “He doesn’t even notice me anymore.”
While Henri lost weight, Peter put it on. His eyes lost the desperate need to look after everyone. He still hobbled around with crutches and was confined to a chair or bed as much as possible—doctor’s orders as his feet continued to heal—but I’d been there the last time his bandages had been changed, and the difference in his soles and palms from the day in the cave to now couldn’t be compared.
“Oh he notices you, I can promise you that,” Peter whispered, careful of the cameras despite their lack of hearing. “You said he hasn’t touched you in weeks and it’s obvious. He looks like a man on death row every time I see him.”
Rachel added to Peter’s list. “You say he’s having nightmares and barely talks to you. Those are all signs of guilt, Ily.”
Peter interrupted, “He’s ashamed of what he’s done because he’s woken up and seen the light.” Lowering his voice, he muttered, “You need to give him a reason to fight again. To fight on the right side.”
“Peter’s right,” Rachel said. “It’s the shame that’s killing him. He needs a way to feel worthy.”
“Give him a way to redeem himself.” Peter crossed his arms.
I looked between the two of them and their seemingly planned attack. “I can’t believe you’re suddenly the president of his fan club.” I met Peter’s dark stare. “You said he’s the worst of the worst.”
“He is.” Peter nodded. “And we need the worst on our side. Besides…” He shrugged. “I can’t explain what I saw. But I know I saw something. Kyle helped Victor burn me. Kyle’s the reason Suri and Dane chose to be shot and why so many of us have been carved and are missing pieces. I would’ve been grateful to anyone who stopped that fucker, but waking up just as Henri was stabbing him? I thought he was a goddamn angel.”
I forced a smile even though my insides felt heavy. “You were on death’s door, Paavak. I’m not surprised you saw angels.”
He nodded. “I agree I hallucinated quite a bit at the end there. I thought you were burying me alive at one point—”
“We told you, Pete. We were dragging you out of the earth not pushing you into it.” Rachel rolled her eyes with a grin.
Peter glanced at his bandaged hands. “I’m sorry I didn’t wake to help you.”
Rachel smirked. “It would’ve been a help, not gonna lie. You’re skinny, but man, you’re heavy.”
He snickered.
My heart tangled with utter gratitude that my friends were okay even as I sank into a sea of confusion that Henri wasn’t.
Well, most of my friends were okay.
