One thing the kids at the hospital do all the time is lie. They lie about taking their medication. They lie about their symptoms. They lie for all sorts of reasons all the time.

It’s my job to know when they’re lying. I can’t save them if I don’t know the truth.

When Jase looked me in the eyes hours ago, he lied to me.

I don’t know what piece of the conversation contained the lie. I don’t know how much was a lie. I don’t know why.

But I know he lied to me. And I can’t let it go. The nagging thought won’t let me sleep. He fucking lied to me. I put it all out there, allowed myself to be raw and vulnerable. My imperfect, broken, bitchy self. And he lied to my face. The worst part is that I’m sure it had to do with my sister.

That’s what hurts the most.

Every minute that passed after seeing that look on his face when he lied, every minute I thought of how I could get it out of him. How I needed to get it out of him. How I was failing Jenny by letting it happen. How I was failing myself.

I’m careful as I slip off the sheet. I haven’t slept at all, but he has. His breathing is even, and I listen to it as I gently climb out of the bed. My body is motionless when I stand up, listening to his inhales and exhales.

I already have my excuse ready in case he wakes. I never got that Advil, after all.

Every footstep is gentle as I move to the dresser, opening a drawer as silently as I can. The first drawer proves useless and as I shut it, Jase breathes in deeper, the pace of his breathing changing. I stand as still as I can, holding my own breath and praying he falls back asleep.

And he does. That steady, even breathing comes back.

With the rush of adrenaline fueling me, I move to his nightstand quietly, slowly, wondering if I’ve lost my fucking mind. I’m so close to him that he could reach out and grab me if he woke up. I watch his chest rise and fall as I open the drawer. The sound of it opening is soft, but noticeable. All the while, Jase sleeps.

I watch his chest for a steady rhythm; I watch his eyes for any movement. He’s knocked the hell out.

The faint light from the room is enough to reflect off the metal of the set of cuffs. I only have two, but if I can get one wrapped around his wrist and linked to the bed, I’ll have him where I need him.

Trapped, until he tells me the fucking truth.

I almost shut the drawer, almost, but then I realize he would be able to reach it, and nestled inside are both a gun and a knife.

The metal gleams in the night and I carefully pick up both weapons and move them to the top of the dresser on the other side of the room, away from his reach.

Thump. Thump. The heat of uneasiness creeps along my skin. My own breathing intensifies, my hands shake slightly and the metal of the handcuffs clinks in the quiet night.

Freezing where I am on the other side of the bed, I wait. And wait. Watching him carefully. If he woke up right now, I don’t even know what he’d do to me.

But it’s better to suffer that consequence than to accept him lying straight to my face, all the while, I fall for him … him and his lies.

It’s what my mother did. She accepted my father’s lies. And it left her a lonely woman. I won’t be with a liar. I don’t care about any debt or any other bullshit reason. I can’t trust a liar.

I don’t realize how angry I’ve become, not until Jase rolls over slightly in bed and my heart leaps up my throat.

The thought runs through my mind not to do it. That I’m out of my element and this world is more dangerous than I can handle. This isn’t the person I am.

But he lied to me. …About Jenny.

Biting down on my bottom lip, I creep back up onto the bed and close one of the cuffs around an iron post of Jase’s bed. There are four metal posts that surround his bed. The soft clink of the locks goes by slowly, clink, clink, clink and I swear he’ll hear it, but his chest rises and falls evenly while he shows no signs of waking.

As I lean closer to him, closer to the other side, and ready to slip the other cuff through the post on that side of him, I gaze down at his face. In his sleep, he’s still a man of power. But even with his strong stubbled jaw, there’s a peacefulness I haven’t seen.

He’s only a man.

It fucking hurts to look at him. When someone can hurt you, it means you care. I have lived my life making sure not to care, so that I won’t be hurt. And yet, Jase Cross pushed his way in, only to lie to me.

It solidifies my decision. I’ll be damned either way.

Clink, clink, clink. With both handcuffs in place, I know securing the one on the left to his wrist will be easy. His wrist is close to the first cuff already. I’m sure he’ll wake and then I’ll be fucked, but I have to try. I’ll have him where I want him.

With that thought, I go through with it, not second-guessing a thing.

I grab his wrist and it’s by sheer dumb luck that he wakes up and grabs my throat with that hand. His dark eyes open wide and he stares daggers at me. Pinning me with a fierce look, the fear I knew I held for him deep down makes me still.

The look he shows is of startle and shock, and I don’t let it distract me, even if I do scream out of instinct.

I drop my head down, shoving my face into the headboard, feeling the burn rising over my head from hitting my nose, and slip the metal around his wrist, scraping it against his skin as he screams at me, locking it into place.

“What the fuck are you doing?” his voice bellows in the room. His grip tightens for a moment, right before releasing me altogether.

I can still feel the imprint of his hand on my throat, the power he has to hurt me. I can feel it as I kick away from him, fighting with the sheets to get far enough away.

Scrambling backward, I fall hard off the bed onto my back, gasping for breath as my heart attempts to climb out of my throat.

Jase rips his arm back, yelling in vain as the metal digs into his wrist and the bed shakes, but he remains attached to it. Cuffed to the bed. He does it again and again and each time I lie on my back like a coward, my elbows propping me up on the floor as I wait with bated breath to see if I have trapped the beast.

“What the fuck did you do?” he jeers. “Where’s the key?” he asks in a snarl.

Silence. Did I really do it? Thump.

“Where’s the fucking key!” he screams until his face turns red. The anger seeps into the air around us as I slowly stand.

“I have the key,” I manage to say somehow calmly, still in disbelief. He blinks the sleep from his eyes, breathing from his nostrils and slowly coming to the realization of what’s happened. The way he looks down at me, like I betrayed him—I’d be a liar if I said it didn’t kill something inside of me.

I ruin what I touch. I should have known this would end with him hating me.

“Give it to me,” he requests with an eerily calm tone, one that chills me to my bones.

“No,” I say, and the word falls from me easily. More easily than I could have imagined as I stand up straighter, walking slowly around the edge of the bed. Not unlike the way he does to me when I undress for him.

His dark eyes narrow on me. “Don’t do this. I won’t be mad. Just give me the key.”

Thump. Thump. Fear burns inside of me. The fear of both repenting, and the fear of going through with it.

I keep walking, slowly making my way to the dresser and Jase’s eyes move to it before looking back at me. “What are you doing?” he asks me, and then I hear him swallow. I hear the hint of fear creeping into his voice. “Give me the key.”

I ignore his demand and pick up the gun. I don’t aim it at him, I merely hold it and tell him, “Put the open cuff around your other wrist.” Although I lack true confidence, the gun slipping slightly in my sweaty palms.

“And how would you like me to do that?” Jase questions, a lack of patience and irritation are the only things I can hear in his voice. Like I’m a child asking for something ridiculous.

“You’re a big boy,” I bite back, “I’m sure you can figure it out.”

All the while I watch him and he watches me, my heart does this pitter-patter in my chest making me think it’s giving up on me as it stalls every time Jase looks back. Using the pillow and occasionally leaning down to hold the cuff between his teeth, he struggles to lock it. I don’t trust him enough to do it myself though. There’s no way he wouldn’t grab me.

My heart beats faster with each passing second as he attempts to close the cuff himself.

Every moment his gaze touches mine, questioning why I’d do this, I question it myself.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I whisper when I hear the cuff finally pushed into place. He rests his wrists against the iron rod, pushing it tighter and securing it.

“Then put the gun down,” he urges me and I listen. I set it down on the dresser where it sat only minutes ago and hesitantly turn to him, each wrist cuffed to his bed.

“You can still uncuff me,” he suggests with more dominance than he should have. Especially because I lift the knife at the end of his sentence.

“More cuffs.” I speak the words and fight back the bile rising in my stomach from knowing my own intentions.

Jase’s eyes stay on the knife as he answers me, “In the top drawer of the dresser. To the right side… with the ropes.” His voice is dull and flat. “You’re going to cuff my ankles?” he guesses correctly and I nod without looking at him, simply because I can’t.

Thump. Thump. My heart feels like it’s lagging behind as I pick up the cuffs from the drawer, right where he said they were.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks me; any hint of arrogance or even anger is gone.

I can barely swallow as I move toward him. With the sheet barely covering him but laid haphazardly over his groin still, the rest of him is fully exposed. He is Adonis. Trapped and furious, but ultimately mortal.

“I want answers,” I say, and I don’t know how I’m able to speak. “You lied to me. I know you did.”

His only response is to stretch out his legs, not fighting, not resisting. Putting his ankles close to the rods.

He’s helping me. Or it’s a trick. I decide on the latter, moving closer, but hesitantly.

“Go on,” he tells me, staring down at me.

I stand back far enough away from the footboard, cautious as I click the first cuff into place.

“Go ahead, cailín tine,” he tells me, staring into my eyes. His nickname for me breaks my heart. Even as I look away, feeling shame and guilt consume me even though I know I have a good reason to do this. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

With the last cuff in place, and Jase half sitting up in bed, leaning against the headboard and staring at me, I observe him from where I stand.

“What are you going to do now?” I ask him.

“Wait.”

“You lied to me.” I whisper the ragged words and turn the handle of the knife over in my hand.

“When?” he questions, and the muscles in his neck tighten.

A sad laugh leaves me and I’m only vaguely conscious of it when I hear it.

“So you did lie?” I ask weakly, feeling the weight against my chest. “And here I was hoping I was just crazy.”

“I’d be hard-pressed in this moment to call you sane,” Jase comments, and my eyes move to his. “Yes, I lied to you.”

“What was a lie?” I ask him and take a step closer to the bed. The floorboard creaks under my step and I halt where I am, taking it as a warning.

“I don’t want to tell you. It doesn’t matter.” He speaks a contradiction.

Wiping my forehead with the back of my hand, still holding the knife, I walk closer to him, gauging his ability to move, even though he’s still as can be.

“I don’t think you could do anything,” I start to tell him as I stand right in front of the nightstand, “if I stand right here.” Holding out my arm, I gently place the blade of the knife on his chest, not pushing at all, but letting him see how far away I can be while still capable of hurting him. “What do you think?” I ask him, wondering if I truly am crazy at this point.

“What do you want to know?” he asks, not answering my question.

“What did you lie about?”

“It’s irrelevant.”

“Anything relating to my sister is relevant.” I grit out the words, pushing the knife down a little harder. Enough so the skin on his pec surrounding the knife, tightens under the blade.

“Did you hurt her?” The words come out unbidden.

“No, I told you that.”

“And you told me you lied,” I counter.

“I lied to protect you, Bethany.” He almost says something else, but instead he rips his gaze away from me, gnashing his back teeth to keep him from talking.

Before I can continue, he tells me, “I have a name, but it’s useless.” His dark eyes lift to mine. “We think he got her hooked, intentionally or not, but he can’t be tied to anything else. Nothing ties him to her death.”

“Give me his name.” The strong woman inside of me applauds my efforts, rejoicing in the fact that it took this much to make him speak and that I was able to push myself to this point.

And that I have a name.

I have someone I can blame and punish, someone I can make pay for what they did to my sister. They tortured her. Broke her body. She was gone for so long, I don’t know how long it went on. And then they burned her. They left nothing of her for me.

There will be nothing of them left when I find them.

“No.” His answer dies in the tense air between us. It takes me a long moment to realize what he’s even saying no to. My mind has gone to darker places, and tears streak down my cheek thinking about what she went through and that I wasn’t there. I couldn’t save her.

“Tell me who it was,” I say as I move a bit closer, holding the knife with both hands, barely keeping it together. I let the tears fall with no restraint, and no conscious consent either. “I want his name!” I raise my voice and even to my own ears it sounds violent and uncontrolled.

Jase stares straight ahead, ignoring me, not answering.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” The confession sounds strangled.

“You don’t have to,” he answers.

“Give me the name, Jase!”

“You’ll get yourself killed!” he yells back at me and the sound bellows from deep within him.

“You don’t understand what they did to her!” I scream at him, feeling the well of emotion filling my lungs. I remember the fear when she went missing. “She would text me every day when she woke up, regardless of what time that ended up being. Sometimes she forgot. But every day, there was at least one text…” I trail off, remembering how angry I’d been when she messaged last. She wouldn’t come back after I made her admit she had a problem. She refused to come back and get help. But she still messaged me every day. Until she didn’t.

“And then there was nothing,” I speak so softly, using what’s left inside of me as the tears fall freely down my face.

“For days and then weeks, there was nothing but fear and hope. And fear is what won. Every day she didn’t text me. The fear won.” As I try to regain my composure, I wipe haphazardly at my face and focus on breathing.

“I waited in silence for nothing. The first forty-eight hours, no one did anything at all,” I say and my words crack. “Why would they? She was reckless and headed down the wrong path.”

The knife is still in my hands, still pressed to his skin when I tell him, “I knew something terrible had happened to her, and I could do nothing. She was still alive then. I know she was. I remember thinking that. That she was still out there. That I could feel her.”

I’m brought back to my kitchen, crying on the floor, hating myself for pushing her away, regretting that I yelled at her, all alone and praying. Praying because God was the only one left to listen to me. Praying he could save her, because I couldn’t.

“I had no name. No one had a name for me. But you do.” I twist the knife just slightly, and suddenly feel it give, but I don’t dare look. I don’t look anywhere but into Jase’s eyes, even as he seethes in pain.

“Give me the name.”

“He’ll kill you, Bethany.” Sorrow etches his eyes and I know his answer already even before he says, “I won’t do that.”

I scream a wretched sound as I pull back the knife. It slices cleanly, so easily, leaving a bright red line in its path. Small and seemingly insignificant, but then blood pours from the wound and he bites back a sound of agony.

It’s bright red. And it doesn’t stop.

What have I done? Jase’s intake is staggered but he doesn’t show any other signs of pain.

“Fuck!” The word leaves me in a rush. “Jase,” I say, and his name is a prayer on my lips. “No,” I think out loud as my hand shakes and the knife drops to the floor. There’s so much blood. There’s so much soaking into the bed as it drips around his body.

It doesn’t stop.

“Jase,” I cry out his name as I ball up the bed sheets and press them to the laceration.

He breathes deep, staring at the ceiling. Silent, and ignoring me as I press more of the cotton linens to his chest, only for it to be soaked a half second later.

There’s so much blood.

“I’m sorry,” I utter as I rip the sheets out from under him, desperate to make it stop. “I’m so sorry.”

The blood soaks through the fabric within seconds, staining my hands.

Staring down at the blood that lines the creases of my palms, I take a step back and then another.

What have I done?