Chapter 49

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

ASHLEY

I'm acutely aware of his hands on my body. One arm is beneath my legs, hand resting just beside my knee, the other arm is around my back, hand on my waist. There's no clothing to protect me from his touch. He doesn't seem to notice or care. He doesn't even look at me as he strides along the path.

I don't speak to him for the rest of the walk back to the house. Every step he takes sends jolts of pain through my shoulder, but I grit my teeth and ignore it. I don't want to give him the pleasure of knowing he's hurting me.

When we reach the house, he walks through the kitchen and doesn't stop until he's upstairs. My entire body tenses up.

Is he taking me back to Jason's room?

Any residual satisfaction I felt about making him chase me down is destroyed by the clammy fear of being forced into that room again.

"Please don't take me in there." I can't stop myself from speaking.

His head dips, and he frowns at me. But he doesn't stop outside the bedroom door, and keeps walking along the hallway, I almost sag in relief. The door he does open reveals a bathroom, and he crosses the tiled floor and sets me down on one of the countertops with an unexpected gentleness. When I move to hop down, he steps closer and shakes his head.

"Stay put."

"I'm fine."

"Stay. Put."

He moves to the side and turns on the faucet, then picks up a folded washcloth. Once he's soaked and wrung it out, he comes back to stand in front of me. He doesn't do or say anything at first, just stares at me.

It's uncomfortable. I don't like how sharp his gaze is, or how focused he seems to be.

When his hand lifts, I flinch back. He ignores me, and presses his fingers beneath my chin to tip my head up.

"What are you doing?"

"Checking the cut on your head. Stay still. I don't have any antiseptic or anything here, so water is going to have to do."

He dabs at my forehead. I hiss.

"Does that hurt?"

"Of course it does!" I can't help but snap the words.

"You know, this attitude of yours isn't part of the contract." He sounds almost amused.

"Call it a surprise bonus."

His lips twitch. I frown.

Did he just smile?

When I try to pull away again, his fingers grip my chin. "Hold still."

"You're hurting me. Let me do it myself."

"You should be thankful I'm not choking the fucking life out of you."

"That'll look good, won't it? Exonerated of two murders, then commits one."

"I wouldn't be feeling the urge, if you hadn't tried to run from me."

"Then maybe you shouldn't be acting like a crazy person."

"You try being locked away for fourteen years. See how sane you are when you're released."

"So you're admitting you're not sane?"

"That isn't what I said."

"Isn't it? Sounds like you did to me."

"Are you always this fucking annoying?"

I don't answer him. Because, in truth, the way I'm behaving isn't normal for me. I don't like causing issues, or fighting with people. I like to live my life quietly, without drawing attention to myself.

So why am I baiting him?

Maybe I'll regret it. Maybe I'll push him too far. But after seeing the recordings of both our interviews after Jason's death, I can't help but wonder if his anger toward me is justified.

Maybe I do deserve the punishment he wants to inflict on me.

Did I lie?

Why did I start out by saying he didn't have a knife, then change my story ?

Why do I remember seeing him holding a knife and standing over the bodies?

Why don't I remember that first half of the interview?

His hand leaves my jaw and he examines my shoulder. I can't hold back a yelp when he pokes and prods around the graze.

"It's not dislocated. Just bruised, I think."

"Maybe I should see a doctor."

"I don't think it's necessary."

"You're going to withhold medical care?"

He snorts. "You're not dying, Firecracker. I think you'll survive."

"I might have a concussion. I hit my head."

"I'm pretty sure you wouldn't be making so much noise if you had a concussion." As he speaks, he crouches down.

"What are you doing now?"

"Checking your knees."

"I can do that."

He ignores me, and cleans the dirt from my knees. He's surprisingly gentle. It bothers me. But I don't want to examine why too deeply.

"All done. You were lucky you didn't break your neck."

"And take the opportunity away from you?" My response is tart.

He straightens. "I've been tempted."

He steps closer. My breath hitches when his hand wraps around my throat, and gives a slight squeeze.

"You have no idea how many nights I spent lying on the bed in my cell dreaming about the day I would get out of there and find you. I had so many ideas. So many plans for what I was going to do to you. How I'd make you pay for what you did. But the one thing they had in common was they all ended the same way."

His fingers flex. I swallow, but my mouth has dried up. The amusement I heard earlier is gone, and there is nothing but darkness in his voice.

"Do you want to know how all my dreams ended, Ashley?"

No, I really don't.

My heart is throwing itself against my ribs. He isn't squeezing my throat so tight that I can't breathe, but there's a look in his eyes, a slight curl to his lips, that suggests he will if I do or say anything to provoke him.

The change in his behavior is a clear reminder.

This is the man I testified against.

This is the man who spent fourteen years in a maximum security prison.

This is the monster he warned me about.