17. Gunpowder

SEVENTEEN

Gunpowder

Satan squeezed himself out from the little space above the fridge and jumped onto Duke's shoulder, and then his head, clawing him as he used him as a launching post to land on the kitchen table. Duke swiped at him angrily, and I used the distraction to dive for the gun. Leaping back as I raised it.

Duke spun around and pulled his arms up, like he really believed I would shoot him.

No, that wasn't right. It was like he knew I would shoot him, because I would. I really, really fucking would.

Nicholai wasn't even looking at me. He was turning on Duke like he really believed I wouldn't do anything .

No … that wasn't right, either. He knew I wouldn't do anything .

Was it possible to be entirely what one person expected of me, and yet entirely what another person expected of me, when those expectations were in direct opposition to one another? I had no idea, but I felt with absolute certainty that I was both versions of the girl they thought I was. I was a murderer—someone who wouldn't even think twice, because my empathy had been switched off. I was only a shell of what a person should be. And yet … I also wouldn't hurt a fly. I had been through too much of my own pain to ever inflict more of it on another being.

My arms started to shake, the cold leaking away from me. Uncomfortable heat was building up beneath my clothes instead. My vision blurred and then refocused on Nicholai, who had slammed Duke up against the wall, twisting his arm behind his back. Duke's face was lined in pain and anger, growing more pained and angry by the second. Nicholai was muttering low in his ear, both of their eyes on me. Nicholai was unfocused, simply looking in my direction.

He was spiralling, I realised.

Duke was very much focused, his eyes on the gun I had snatched from him. It was pointed directly at his face. I wasn't sure when I had moved it, or why, but he had noticed. Nicholai continued to speak, his words too low to catch. Duke grunted in pain, struggling to free himself as Nicholai hitched his arm higher up his back.

"I'm done here," Duke spat out. "Just get the fuck off me."

Nicholai didn't need further prompting. He backed off and hauled Duke through the door, shoving him to the concrete outside. I heard the sound of his body hitting the ground, and then Nicholai was closing the door again. He turned to me, and I watched as he fought to bring himself back under control.

It took only a second. He was much better at it than I was. He moved toward me faster than a man should move toward a loaded gun being held by a crazy person. He took the weapon from me and set it on the counter, and then my face was in his hands.

"It's over, Mika, come back to me."

It should have been easy to stop the spiral with him standing there, with his hands on my skin and his eyes holding mine, but that wasn't the way it worked. There was some part of me that wanted to believe he was telling me it was safe for me to break down, that he would catch me—but there was a much larger part of me that didn't want to break at all.

"One second," I muttered, breaking out of his hold.

I moved past him, grabbing the gun as I went, and then I was through the door before he could stop me. I ran through the path back towards the parking lot, half expecting Duke to jump out of the trees and surprise me. I made it to Duke's truck and aimed the gun at his back tyres, shooting both of them before rounding the cab and shooting the front two tyres. I considered smashing the windows but Nicholai was at the entrance to the path and lights were beginning to turn on—I could see the glow of them through the trees.

"Let's go," I muttered, tossing the gun into the bushes and moving to Nicholai's car instead, my hand on the passenger door handle.

He moved to the driver's side seemingly without batting an eye, unlocking the doors and starting the engine as I climbed in. His hands were relaxed on the wheel as we escaped the lot, his expression neutral, as though we did this sort of thing every day.

"Can you put off the lecture for a while longer?" I asked, examining the side of his face that I could see.

He nodded once. "If you agree to eat a fucking meal for once."

"Can you just drop me off at the diner? I'll call a friend and stay at her place tonight."

The change in him was instant. His jaw tightened, his grip on the wheel became tense.

"You're not my patient." The words burst out of him, rough and short .

I blinked in shock but recovered quickly. "When I asked you to put off the lecture, I meant for more than a few seconds."

"I needed to say it." He glanced at me as we rolled to a stop at a red light. His expression was impossible to read, the traffic lights flashing colour over his squared jawline, and the muscle flexing in his cheek. "I need you to stop coming to the centre. I can't be your psychologist. I can't fill that role for you, not if you really want me to help you."

"You really did quit because of me." I could hear the surprise in my voice, but I only felt numb. He was distancing himself from me. I didn't blame him.

I could hear sirens in the distance, getting closer. Nicholai was quiet, thinking of a response.

Eventually, he said, "Yes. I left early because of you—I left a job I was already planning on leaving. I left because I kissed you. I know I can't change your life and save you—only you can do that, but I thought I could do something, at least. I thought I knew what you were going through enough to predict your behaviour … I just couldn't predict how you would affect me. If I had stayed at that school I would have laid you out on my desk. I would have needed that stupid chair you sat in all the time to be wet before I let you go back to class— fuck ." He slapped his hands against the steering wheel .

The light turned green and the car jolted to life again.

"You said it would never happen." I was still staring at the side of his face, needing his eyes to return to mine. My limbs were aching, itching to climb over to his seat. My breath was shorter than it should have been, but there was also an accusation in the words I spoke.

"It won't." He cut his eyes to mine, showing me the heat and anger to be found there, before he looked back to the road. "That's why I left. That's why you can't come to the centre. We aren't going to happen but I'm not letting you go. I'm not leaving you alone. I just … I can't have you in my office. I can't help you if I can't even touch you. Everyone else, sure … just not you. I don't really understand why, why you , but that's how it is."

"You left your job for a girl you barely know, and you think I'm the insane one."

The truck slowed and a laugh spilled out of him, unwilling. Short and sharp. "I know you better than you think. I've known a thousand different versions of you?—"

"I feel so special?—"

"A thousand different versions of trauma, but I wasn't in charge of any of those people," he cut across me, shaking his head again. "They all had other people who were supposed to keep them safe. You don't have anyone."

"You're not in charge of me, either," I countered. "You're not one of my people. I don't have you."

"Every relationship is a choice," he returned calmly. "Choose me, Mika, and I'll choose you."

My breath was gone, my lungs devoid of air. My palms were clammy. Maybe I was panicking, or maybe I was overwhelmed. I wanted to cry, to jump out of the truck and refuse the lifeline he was handing me.

"I don't understand," I whispered.

"I want to be there for you." He sighed, pulling the truck into a spot outside one of the portside restaurants. He pulled on the brake and turned off the engine, turning in his seat to face me, his eyes travelling over my face, searching for something in my expression. "I want you to call me when you're upset, or angry, or anything. I don't want you to have to wait for an appointment. I don't want you to feel like you have nobody, or nowhere to go."

"Like …" I could feel my brow furrowing, could hear the stumble of confusion in my voice. "Like a … friend?"

He pulled back—a short, almost sarcastic laugh falling out of him. His hands were in his hair, his head falling back against the headrest. For just a second, he closed his eyes, retreating into himself, but then he was right there with me again, the beautiful meld of midnight blue and indigo in his irises scattering my thoughts, his hands on either side of my face, drawing me closer.

"Yes," he muttered, his attention shifting to my lips for a breath, before refocussing. "I want to be your fucking friend. What do you say?"

"Buy me dinner." Was I smiling? What the fuck? "And I'll think about it."

I jumped out of the truck before he had a chance to respond, but he was around the hood and standing in front of me in an instant. His hands were against the side of the truck, hemming me in on both sides, trapping me as the door clicked shut behind me. I could feel the cool surface against my back. He was looming close, and awareness rushed through me yet again.

"Answer me." It was a request, but it sounded strange. He wasn't accustomed to requesting things. "I really need you to answer me."

He was handing me the power by stripping his away. He was removing himself from the role that I could have used to damage myself. I recognised that now. He had taken away my ultimate path to destruction.

But …

Nothing had changed. I could still smell that cool ocean scent that seemed to cling to him, I could still feel the heat of his body looming over mine, and his eyes still pulled me in. I still wanted him. Needed him. Hated him.

"We can be friends," I finally said, and I knew that it was a lie.

We would never be friends—we weren't meant for that. I was an open flame and he was pure oxygen. He wanted to breathe life into me, but he would only ever ignite me. Sure, some might consider that life , but I was pretty sure that he would be the end of me.

He wasn't moving. He was watching, breathing slowly, his head bent to meet my eyes. He seemed to be looking for something, searching for the truth or the lie behind what I had said.

When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. "Let's get you some food."

He backed off me quickly. I followed him into the restaurant, passing through the shopfront that was almost entirely covered in vine foliage. A tiny sign poked out from the greenery, announcing the name of the place. Sain Maison . I caught up to him as he reached the glass doors, a vine falling from the overhang to brush against his shoulder.

"We can go somewhere else," I muttered, my hand on his bicep. Just touching him had my face growing hot. I wanted to slide my hand around to his chest, but I forced my fingers to draw away.

He gave me his little half smile, his face transforming into something else completely. Something bright, a glimmer of humour hiding there. I was sure that it was at my expense.

"We could," he said, pushing the door wide and pulling me through, "but we won't."

The lights inside were low, even though it was barely sunset outside. It smelled like fresh bread and spices, and my mouth was watering instantly. There was more greenery along the interior walls—climbing, vertical gardens below narrow skylights, with lights set between the leaves, a muted golden glow shining softly through. Small, four-person booths were built along each of the walls, some looking out through the front garden onto the street, the twinkle of water visible in the distance. Two huge, antique chandeliers dropped from the ceiling, with the main bar taking up the middle of the room. It was an island, lit with beautiful, patterned lanterns that were hung all the way around. There were several people sitting at the bar already, and a few couples tucked away into the booths.

Jesus this place is beautiful. And fancy. Way too fancy.

Finally, I had found a place that Nicholai looked like he belonged in .

"I wasn't expecting you tonight." A woman appeared, her voice a soft exclamation of surprise. One of her hands was at her ear, tucking away a silky strand of blonde hair. She let her fingers linger there as her lips curved up in invitation at Nicholai. I was utterly invisible.

Didn't he have a girlfriend?

"Change of plans." He seemed oblivious to her attention, as if he had lived with it his entire life. "Can we get a booth, Meg?"

"Absolutely," she cooed, her eyes staying fixed on his. She reached over to her stand, taking hold of a set of menus, before she smoothed out her skirt and took a few steps away, smiling in invitation before she turned for us to follow. She exhausted me. Nicholai waited for me to choose a seat before he slipped behind the table to sit opposite me.

"Just water," he instructed Meg, before she had a chance to go through whatever her usual routine was.

She nodded, her eyes finally taking me in, before she turned quickly and headed to the bar. She had walked significantly slower to the table. The phone in my pocket began to ring, and I pulled it out, laying it on the table in surprise. It didn't usually ring, unless Jean?—

"Oh shit," I whispered, quickly answering the call and pulling it to my ear. "I'm so sorry, I forgot?— "

"Save it, Grey, we have bigger problems than training right now." Jean sounded panicked.

"What happened?" My mouth was dry. Was I in trouble? I didn't like the idea of Jean being upset with me.

"There was a fire."

"What?" Now my mouth was numb, and I was struggling to make my way out of the booth.

"I came to meet you, and your trailer was on fire—I couldn't call you earlier because they were already here, trying to put it out. The cops wanted to question me. They're talking to your aunt and uncle right now."

I finally managed to find my feet, but now I had to pause and lean on the table. Nicholai was already beside me, and his presence alone was enough to draw my eyes up to his, where they stayed, holding on.

"They're … there?" I managed.

"Listen, Grey … I don't know how to tell you this, but your aunt … she doesn't want you to come back."

"Why." It should have been a question, but it wasn't. I was just saying a word, going through the motions of a conversation that was expected of me.

"She didn't tell me why, she just said that it was very important you didn't turn up while the police were here."

Jean was telling the truth, but she was also lying. I could hear it in her voice. She knew why. I also knew why.

"I need a lift," I muttered, the phone still pressed to my ear.

"Don't—" Jean began, even though I had been talking to Nicholai.

"Come on," he said, striding for the door. He walked past Meg without a glance, so I followed suit.

"You know you can't, Grey, please don't make things hard for yourself." Jean was still talking.

"I understand, thank you for telling me," I said, my voice unemotional. I hung up the call, pushing my phone back into my pocket.

Nicholai was holding my door open. I brushed past him, stepping up to the passenger seat. He rounded the truck quickly, jumped inside, and started the engine.

"Where am I going?" His eyes had darkened, settling on me.

"I have to go home. My trailer caught fire."

His hand was on the gearshift before I had even finished talking, and we were pulling out of the lot.

"You go to that place often?" I asked.

"Why are you asking about the restaurant?" he shot back, a little too quickly. "Who set fire to your trailer? Was it that guy?"

"Probably. So, you eat there often? "

I could hear the short sigh from his seat, but he allowed the subject change.

"Yeah." He paused. "It's my dad's place."

I hadn't been expecting that.

"Are you close with your dad?" The question wasn't deliberate, it was more of a spill. I felt the need to wipe it up, so I continued. "Do you ... talk much? I mean obviously you do. They know you at the restaurant."

He cut a glance to me, and I could tell that I was encroaching on subject matter he didn't want to explore, so I wasn't at all surprised by his short answer.

"I love my dad. We get along fine."

"It's because of her?" I asked. "The reason you never want to talk about your life. It's the girl you lost. It was your sister, wasn't it?"

He was working his jaw, the tension in his arms and shoulders becoming visible.

"Yes." One word, short and clipped. The conversation was over.

Or not .

"She died the way those girls in the photos did, didn't she?" I asked. "The photos on your computer. I don't know a lot about sadistic perverts, but I figure they get off on making women feel vulnerable, and me discovering those photos put me in a vulnerable position, but you didn't get off on it. You got mad—really mad. So, I discovered something personal. And then you mentioned her ... so I discovered her , didn't I?"

He pulled the truck over to the side of the road and turned to stare at me. We were just outside the trailer park, but as I glanced toward the parking lot, I realised it was full. Police cars, the fire department: everyone had come to the party. I turned back to Nicholai, almost reluctantly, but it wasn't the tension or the reluctance to have the conversation we were having that I found in his face. It was shock.

"What?" I asked, emotion beginning to creep into me.

I had managed to stay perfectly numb up until this point, but Nicholai's reaction was trying to force an answering reaction out of me.

First, there was confusion, and then there was panic. Not panic over Nicholai, but panic over the fact that someone—most likely Duke—had set fire to my trailer. No … not my trailer. Fred and Shel's trailer. They hadn't wanted me before, but this incident might very well have provided the exact ammunition they needed to hate me. To cast me out completely, to drop the facade of caring for me at all.

"I've told you before," he replied, reaching over the space between us, his hand moulding to the shape of my jaw, his thumb slipping up over the slope of my cheek. There was no barrier between us, and it had my mouth drying up. "Sometimes you speak …" His thumb slipped lower, to the side of my mouth. "And you just … floor me. Nobody else has ever been able to do that."

"It seemed obvious to me," I replied, my voice softer, huskier.

His eyes darkened, his thumb dragging over the curve of my bottom lip, pulling it slightly away from my teeth. "It wasn't obvious, Mika. You were paying attention. You were seeing the tiny little connections between seemingly unrelated facts. Most people don't see the world like that, but I like that you do."

"That's a nice thing to like about somebody," I managed, though speaking dislodged his touch against my lip.

His thumb was back at the side of my mouth, his eyes darkening further. He drew away from me, dropping his hand to his lap.

"I'm not nice," he said bluntly. "I care about very few people. You just happen to be one of them."

"Because I remind you of your sister." Saying the words made me feel a little sick, and he laughed derisively.

"No." He shook his head, still chuckling. "I saw something in you that I had seen before, in her. A kind of detached panic, like you didn't even realise you were freaking out, but you were. I've seen that look in many people, many girls just like my sister, but you were different. You didn't have anybody. I couldn't let you walk out of my office without telling myself that I would do more to help you than any of the others. I needed to promise myself that you wouldn't be alone, that I could save you somehow. But then things got messed up, I have never wanted to break my own rules before, and now I want to break them every single fucking day, every single fucking second. Are you done stalling now, Mika? Do you need me to go in with you?"

"I'm good," I choked out, quickly slipping from the passenger seat.

He leaned back, gripping the steering wheel again. "Call me if you need anything, okay?"

"Okay," I muttered, closing the door.

My legs were unsteady and emotions were beginning to crash through me, each one heavier than the last.

Shock.

Want.

Need.

Panic .