Twisted-Games

RHYS
SHE WASN’T COMING.
I stood on the rooftop of the palace’s northernmost tower, my jaw tight as
I watched the minutes tick by on my watch.
Six minutes past nine. Seven. Eight.
Bridget was always punctual unless she had a meeting that ran over, and
she didn’t have any meetings that late at night.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Uncertainty coiled in my stomach. It’d been a gamble, reaching out to
Booth and sneaking into the palace, but I’d been desperate to see her.
I’d known there was a chance Bridget, stubborn as she was, wouldn’t
show up. But I also knew her. No matter what she said, she’d wanted to let
me go as much as I wanted to leave her, and I was banking on the fact the
past two weeks had been hell for her as much as it had been for me.
Part of me hoped it hadn’t, because the thought of her hurting in any way
made me want to want to burn the palace to the fucking ground. But another,
selfish part hoped I’d haunted her as she had me. That every breath was a
struggle to draw enough oxygen into her lungs, and every mention of my
name caused a sharp needle of pain to pierce her chest.
Because hurt meant she still cared.
“Come on, princess.” I stared at the red metal door and willed her to walk
through it. “Don’t let me down.”
Twelve minutes past nine. Thirteen.
The rhythm in my jaw pulsed in time with my heartbeats.
Fuck it. If tonight didn’t work, I’d try again until I succeeded. I’d fought
and won impossible battles all my life, and the one for Bridget was the most