Not that she didn’t know how to handle an occasional bout of sincerity. Just that with anyone else, she’d have used it to crawl inside their head, and here it crawled inside hers, forcing her to acknowledge the anguish that made her want to lash out, reminding her that what burned on the inside was Jack’s doing, and projecting his betrayal onto someone else only made her the bigger asshole.

Holden re-straddled the chair.

She cursed him inside her head.

She didn’t know what she wanted, but she did know she didn’t want him to leave, and that was twice the mindfuck because Jack knew it, too, would have counted on it, which meant more was coming and Jack was still making decisions on her behalf and the only way to free herself from him was to choose a path she didn’t want.

She clenched her jaw shut and, muted, screamed.

She said, “I hate him, Chris. Sometimes I truly, truly hate him.”

“I don’t blame you,” he said. “But where does that leave me?”

She didn’t know the answer to that. Honestly, she didn’t.

“I don’t want to kill you,” she said.

He said, “That’s hardly reassuring.”

“I do still want to hurt you.”

He pondered for a beat. “Fair enough, I suppose.”

He stepped around the bed for her left hand, unfolded the blade and, for the first time, cut through tape. She waited, watching, rage and frustration, exhaustion and emotional overload colliding into a need for control, watching until the blade cut clean through, and she lunged to snatch the knife.

He was faster than expected, but he flinched, nicked her wrist, and for a fraction of a second, his expression hovered between horror and panic.

That alone was worth shedding blood for.

She laughed, she couldn’t help it.

And with the laughter, rage and tension eased.

Holden stared at her, mouth agape.

That only made her laugh harder, silent, body-racking manic laughter that sent relief flooding her system and real tears streaming down her face.

He said, “You’re an asshole.”

Her one free hand wiped her face. “Yeah,” she said. “I am.”

He placed the knife tip against her left foot.

“Stop moving,” he said.

She stilled to let him do his thing, and once she was fully loose, seriousness descended as quickly as the laughter had. She scooted into a seated position, tore the tape mittens off her fingers, and rubbed her wrists and ankles.

“Do this to me again,” she said, “I’ll slit your throat.”

She wasn’t kidding, and he knew she wasn’t.

He nodded, and silence and emptiness followed, as if reaching this truce was as far as either of them had thought out. There was no “What next?” No purpose.

At least she sure as hell didn’t have one.

Holden offered her a bottle of water, said, “You hungry?”