Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
HAYAMI
PRESENT
“Have you slept yet?” I ask Fenrir. His features look drawn. Worry lines are etched across his brow that mingle with the scarring down the side of his face. I wonder if our confinement is getting to him.
“No,” he answers quickly.
“Why don’t you take a shower and then get an hour’s rest? You can’t keep functioning on so little sleep.”
He’s about to argue with me, so I add, “I’m fine here, but if it makes you feel better, I’ll sit in your room whilst you shower and rest.”
To my surprise, he nods, shoves the book he’s been reading into his back pocket, and rises from the chair.
We make our way up the stairs and into his room, which is smaller than mine with less lavish furnishings.
The bed is neatly made. A towel hangs on the radiator, and his large duffel bag is the only thing littering the floor.
It smells of him, and it feels odd, being here, like I’m invading his personal space.
Grabbing a towel, he then roots around in his bag and pulls out a fresh set of clothes.
“I won’t be long,” he tells me. “Don’t leave this room.”
“I won’t.” I sit in the chair in the corner and watch as he disappears into his en suite.
I don’t hear the door lock.
And then the thought of walking into the en suite to watch him in the shower takes over.
The hot water running down his tight chest, the knowing look as I stepped under the water fully clothed.
He’d take my head in his hands and kiss me so fucking hard that I’d grasp onto the side of the cubicle to hold myself up.
He’d be hard for me. I’d press my hands against his chest and push him back.
His eyes would narrow until I lowered to my knees and took him in my mouth.
Shit. I need to stop this.
Maybe we’ve both been in this house too long.
But as I pick up my book, I can’t keep the fantasy from playing out.
I can almost feel his length hit the back of my throat.
It’s just a hormonal reaction with him being the only male in the vicinity.
But I’m starting to wonder how true that really is, and whether my attraction to Fenrir has been brewing since the day he pulled me out of that pool.
I’ve never been in love before, which is as much my father’s fault as it is anyone’s. You have to get to know someone to fall in love with them, and I’ve never been allowed to be close to or spend time with anyone for long enough for love to take root.
The only lust and longing I’ve ever felt has been in the books I read. I’ve never felt this attraction for a real person, one who’s living, breathing, existing. How can I when I have a security team on my heels twenty-four-seven?
Fury burrows from within my chest and explodes across my skin.
As soon as I get out of this house, my plan will resume. I don’t care how. I don’t care at what cost. I won’t comply with my father any longer.
But to achieve this, I’m going to have to tell either Willa or Fenrir what’s going on; otherwise, I’ll never manage it.
Willa isn’t here.
That leaves Fenrir.
He’s been so open with me about what happened to him when he was younger, about what he went through, and what he’s done. But what will his reaction be when he learns what my father’s plan is and what I’ve tried to do to thwart it?
As soon as I get out of this house.
Trying to rein in my imagination, I focus back on the words on the page. It’s almost impossible. All I can focus on is the rushing water and the thought of Fenrir touching himself. Maybe he’s even getting himself off in the shower. And fuck if the urge to touch myself right now isn’t overwhelming.
* * *
FENRIR
When Hayami suggested I take a shower, I jumped at the chance. As the water heats, I pace the small en suite and google what I’ve just read in Junko’s journal. My head is a mess, and I misspell the name, but Google knows what I’m typing, and the words pop up in the search list.
Kuchisake-Onna.
I scan the text, my heart speeding up.
Kuchisake-Onna is the Japanese urban legend and folklore of the slit-mouthed woman, who is believed to be the ghost of a woman who was mutilated, with a deep gash running from ear to ear, making her appear as if she is grinning.
She appears at night, usually covering the lower half of her face with a mask.
She will ask anyone who sees her if they think she is beautiful: “Watashi kirei?” If the person says yes, she will then remove her mask, revealing her hideous mouth, and ask, “Kore demo?” which means “Even with this?” If you answer no, she will kill you with whatever sharp instrument she is carrying, and if you say yes hesitantly, she will cut you in the same way she was cut.
There is a theory that by answering “average” to the second question, you can buy yourself some time to escape her.
Legend has it that she was the concubine of a powerful samurai who caught her being unfaithful, so he punished her by slitting open her mouth from ear to ear.
Another theory is that she was mutilated during a medical or dental procedure by a woman who was jealous of her beauty.
Either way, you do not want to get caught alone with Kuchisake-Onna.
Lowering my phone, I note the tremble in my hand.
Fuck.
This can’t be right. This is an urban legend. It isn’t true. But even if it is, it’s a Japanese legend. Why would Kuchisake-Onna be here on Hellion Ridge?
Maybe I’m looking at this all wrong. Maybe this isn’t the famous legend. Maybe this Kuchisake-Onna has her origins here rather than in Japan.
Is it so unreasonable to think that the spirit that Junko felt in the walls is that of Kuchisake-Onna? Or is it all fabrication, something compiled by Junko’s fragile mental health?
But what about Kevin’s father? Is that story true? It’s hard to say when the story is thirdhand. Did Junko really have that conversation with Kevin? He definitely knew her; otherwise, he wouldn’t have said so when we met him in the store.
And then there are the things I’ve seen.
That first night, when Hayami stood in front of the camera and pulled at the corners of her mouth.
Then the following night, I watched her get out of bed and then stand under the camera, pulling at her face in the same grotesque way as her mouth filled with blood, yet when I ran into her room, she was fast asleep.
What the fuck is going on here? And why does Hayami not seem to feel it?
Is it that her scientific brain won’t let her believe in such things, or is it because she lives with such horrors every day that this is nothing compared to what she puts up with in her normal life?
Or is it because nothing is happening at all other than what’s going on in my sleep-deprived brain?
Am I just like Junko and seeing things that aren’t there?
Maybe I’m the one losing my mind.
* * *
HAYAMI
The water stops.
Five minutes pass before the door opens. Now he’s in the room—T-shirt on, shorts hanging low, hair wet—and I can’t breathe.
Towel-drying his hair, he stalks over to the bed. I’ve never seen him in anything other than workwear or a black suit. He looks natural, although his shoulders are square and the muscles on his upper arms seem tense, as if the shower has done nothing to abate his agitation.
Aware that I must be staring, I say, “You’ll be glad to know I’m still alive.”
He doesn’t respond, just sits on the bed and places a pillow behind his neck.
I raise my book to cover my face.
“Hayami.”
“Yes?” I lower my book. He’s not looking at me but studying the walls. What the hell is he looking at? Surely he can’t think the walls are bugged, or that there’s a hidden trap moulded within the plaster, yet he’s staring at them as if they’re about to speak.
“If I do fall asleep and I….” He pauses. “If I shout out or say anything, wake me up.”
I’m about to ask what he might shout, but then I remember the fire.
Of course he has bad dreams. I’m a little touched that he feels comfortable sleeping in front of me, and that he doesn’t mind if I see this side of him.
I think of all the sides of me he’s seen.
He’s seen me at my lowest, my worst, the part of me that refuses to bow down to the life that’s been shaped for me.
Or maybe he feels a little safer with me here?
“Of course.” I nod, hoping to convey the concern and understanding that’s rushing through me.
He takes a deep breath, then closes his eyes, his arms folded across his chest.
I try not to watch him, but I can’t help it. There are two halves of this man—the brutally beastly side shaped by trauma, and the blessedly beautiful side, serene and still—and I wonder which one truly prevails.
I want to join him, to place my arms around him, stroke his face, bury myself next to him and sleep.
He’s far from perfect, but that’s what makes him all the more alluring.
I could watch him all night. This goliath of a man, who’s come into my life and taught me how to defend myself, how to keep myself safe instead of wrapping me in cotton wool.
This man, who now trusts me enough to let me guard him, to let me keep him safe, because that’s exactly what I want to do.
I want to take all his hurt away and banish his demons, because he’s just as vulnerable as I am.
My eyes grow heavy, but I fight them. I don’t want to miss a single moment of him.