Page 59 of The Accident

He makes a sound low in his throat. “You can put your things wherever you want, sweetheart. There’s plenty of space.”

My face goes pink, and I try to cover it by fussing with the stove. “Thanks, and I like my room,” I fib. “I like the twin bed. Reminds me of when I was little and makes me feel safe.”

He says nothing, but the silence has a weight to it.

I scrape the salmon onto a plate and bring it to him, then sit at the island with my own food. The light outside is shifting, the windows tinting the skyline a bruised lavender. For a minute, we eat without talking, just the soft scrape of forks and the hum of the fridge.

After a few bites, he says, “And the rest of the list?”

I blink, then remember. I pick up my water, take a tiny sip, and set it down with both hands wrapped around the glass.

“I went to the pharmacy,” I say, and my voice is so small I have to repeat it. “I got the stuff you said. Condoms and Plan B. And… I didn’t know if you wanted me to get on, like, hormonal birth control too? I’ll have to go to the doctor but just so you know, I’m not on anything right now.”

He tilts his head, eyes suddenly bright. “The condoms are fine. You’re a young, healthy woman and hormonal birth control is fucking insidious. Even after women stop that shit, the chemicals stay in your body for a long while, and can be hard to flush out. So no, we won’t risk that.”

I squint at him because is he implying what I think he’s implying? Does Trevor want to get me pregnant at some point down the line? The thought blows my mind, and I don’t know how to respond to that, so I just nod, the motion stiff and awkward.

Meanwhile, my stepbrother sets his fork down and leans over the counter. His hand comes up, slow and deliberate, and cups my jaw, thumb pressing a gentle line along my cheekbone. His skin is warm, the pressure careful, but there’s no doubt who’s in charge.

“I’ll take care of you, sweetheart,” he growls, and there’s a note in his voice that I’ve never heard before. Something that feels intimate, like a secret he’s letting me in on. “There’s no reason to be nervous about your first time. You’re mine now so you don’t have to worry.”

I look at his hand on my face, then back at his eyes, which are so blue and direct that I feel myself sinking. My heart is running a two-minute mile, my body electric and hot in ways that make me want to run and never stop, or else never move again. Yet I feel safe in this space with him and mentally hand him the reins, my spine sagging a bit as relief floods my veins.

“Okay,” I whisper. I don’t know what else to say.

He lets his thumb rest there, just for a second longer, and then pulls away, the loss of contact making me shiver. He picks up his fork, takes another bite of salmon, and looks at me like he’s trying to memorize everything about this moment.

We eat in silence for a while, the only sounds the tick of silverware and the low susurration of the city through the windows. I keep sneaking glances at him, the way the light off the kitchen throws shadows along his jaw, the way his hands move—efficient, precise, but never hurried. He finishes his plate before I’m even halfway done, then sits back, folds his arms, and studies me.

“You did well today, Kayleigh,” he says finally. “You’ve adapted beautifully.”

It’s the closest thing to praise I’ve ever heard from him, and it fills me up in a way that’s both embarrassing and euphoric.

I smile, and it’s real.

“Thank you,” I murmur, a blush creeping on my cheeks.

He stands, pushes his chair back, and walks around the island. His footsteps are slow, but my pulse picks up anyway. He stops next to me, close enough that I can smell the faint trace of his cologne, the salt from his skin. He extends his hand, palm up, and waits.

I know what he wants.

I put my hand in his.

The grip is warm, strong, and absolute.

He doesn’t say anything as he leads me down the hallway toward my tiny bedroom.

Maybe I’m on the back foot.

Maybe I have no control over what’s going to happen next.

But I can feel the future unspooling between us, tight and bright as a wire, and for the first time all day, I’m not nervous at all.

I’m ready to be his.

The hallway is short, maybe ten steps end to end, but with Trevor’s hand on mine, it feels like a tunnel to somewhere darker and more absolute than anywhere I’ve ever been. His grip is gentle, but there’s no option of pulling away, and when he stops at the door to my so-called bedroom, I feel my legs go boneless. The room is a shoebox: it has that same airless, windowless vibe you find in server rooms and walk-in coolers. Still, it’s mine, and this is where Trevor wants to be.

He closes the door behind us, lets the latch click, and then turns to face me.