Page 128 of Where the Snakes Sleep

“You asked me to.”

I ball one hand into a fist. “There are a few more in my room,” I mutter, feeling like a petulant child.

Without another word, he takes the small bundle in my hands and disappears.

By midday, I have extracted from him an entire morning’s worth of favors—he’s prepared my breakfast, washed and folded my clothes, retrieved a book from the top shelf of a cabinet I could have reached if I’d bothered to stand on a stool, and made lunch.

Not a single complaint. Not a hint of the retort I crave.

Late afternoon finds me retreating to my bedroom, feeling deflated. I sprawl across the unmade bed, and consider ordering Camille to do that as well, but knowing he’d just willingly do it defeats the purpose.

I let out an exasperated sigh. “This revenge thing sucks.”

My bag sits nearby on the floor beside the bed, still holding the items from the cottage wall. I haven’t even told Camille about the USB and case yet. He thinks there’s only the journal.

I have not asked Camille to look at anything, but more frustratingly, he has not asked.

That part is becoming harder to ignore.

I roll onto my side and stare at the wall.

Something inside me softens toward him—some small, traitorous thing that I can feel happening the way you can feel yourself about to sneeze.

I crush it immediately.

No.

Absolutely not.

He does not get forgiveness just because he learned how to behave after getting caught. That would be ridiculous. People are supposed to respect boundaries. That is the minimum, not a redemption arc.

Still…

My gaze drifts toward the door.

There is another thing I have been thinking about all day. I have tried not to. Which obviously means I have thought about it constantly, in the specific, unhelpful way that you think about something you are actively trying not to think about—each attempted redirect arriving right back at the same image.

Sex.

Not because I am horny.

I mean, I am.

Unfortunately.

Camille continues to look like Camille, which is frankly incredibly fucking inconsiderate under the circumstances.

But that is not the real reason.

The real reason is much uglier.

Sex was the tool he used. Not without my consent. Not without genuine attraction. But he admitted it benefited him—that he knew intimacy might build the trust that ordinary offers of help had failed to create. That he let me believe I was setting the pace when he already knew the destination.

So part of me wants to take it back.

Not sex itself.

Control.