Déjà Vu

Atticus looked doubtful. 

Daphne hadn't seen so much expression on his face ever since Eugene Attonson's escape. Ever since then, it seemed like the only thing she had ever witnessed him wear as an expression was either anger, irritation, or bloodlust.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "If you're uncomfortable with it, you don't have to force yourself."

Daphne's heart sank. What did he mean by that? Did Atticus not want to share a bed with her after all? Was he really that disgusted with her that even sleeping ― innocently, at that ― side by side was revolting to him, so much so that he couldn't even stand doing so for just one night?

All of a sudden, her chest felt like it was constricted by a thousand iron chains. It weighed her down so much that she found it difficult to even breathe. The back of her eyes felt hot and her breath felt haggard.

The feeling of rejection was suffocating. To think she had been putting Atticus through this the entire time.