19. Esperr
ESPERR
The stench of copper is the first thing I notice.
It’s thick in the air, heavy enough that it coats the back of my throat every time I try to breathe. My stomach turns, the taste of metal crawling up my tongue as the scent settles deep in my lungs.
The kitchen light flickers above us—once and then twice. Each flash throws the room into uneven shadows that crawl across the tile floor like it’s something alive.
My mother stands a few feet away from me near the counter; one hand grips the edge so tightly her knuckles have turned white, the other is pressed against her stomach like she’s trying to hold herself together.
Blood slips through her fingers, slowly running down her wrist, dripping onto the pale tile beneath her feet.
The sound it makes when it hits the floor is soft and steady—drip, drip, drip.
And all while I watch it, my feet refuse to move.
The cold tile presses into the bottoms of my bare feet, grounding me to the spot like the floor is waiting to swallow me whole.
My lungs pull in shallow breaths that never seem to reach deep enough, panic tightening around my ribs until every inhale burns.
I know I should run; I know I should move. But my body won’t listen, not when across the kitchen, he watches us—watches me.
The knife hangs loosely in his hand, the blade catching the flickering light above us. It’s wet; dark streaks run along the metal, sliding slowly down to the handle before dripping onto the floor.
His boots track through the blood he’s already spilled.
He doesn’t look angry; if anything, he looks oddly calm and curious, like he’s studying something that fascinates him.
My mother’s breathing turns ragged, each inhale rattling painfully in her chest as she struggles to stay upright. Her eyes lift, finding mine across the island.
“Melody,” she whispers. The sound of my name cracks something open in my chest.
Her gaze softens for half a second, fear bleeding into something else, something that looks like she’s sorry for bringing me into this lifestyle.
“Run,” she breathes.
The word barely leaves her mouth before he’s moving, and then the sound of the knife sliding through fabric makes my stomach drop.
My mother gasps as the blade drives into her again, the sound wet and horrible as it sinks into her side.
Her body jerks violently, fingers slipping from the counter as the strength drains out of her.
“STOP!” a scream tears out of my throat before I even realize I’m making it.
His head turns towards me, slowly, and for the first time his eyes meet mine. My stomach twists violently, seeing nothing there. No anger or rage, just pure interest. His mouth curves slightly as if he finds my reaction entertaining.
My mother collapses onto the tile with a heavy thud, and I’m there in an instant, my feet no longer glued to the ground but dropping to my knees beside her. My hands hover uselessly over the wound in her stomach as blood continues to pour between her fingers.
“I–it’s okay,” she whispers weakly, her voice barely there.
Tears pour from my eyes—this isn’t okay, and I don’t understand why she’s saying this. Her skin is already turning pale, while my hands shake as I try to press against the wound, panic clawing up my throat, warm blood spilling over my fingers.
“M–mom, please?—”
A shadow falls over us, and I freeze, not wanting to look up, but I’m weak and do so anyway.
He’s standing only a few feet away now, the knife still dripping in his hand, gaze moving from my mother to me. A smile spreads across his face; it’s small but satisfied.
“You should’ve listened to her,” he says, his voice grating on every nerve I have.
“What?” I hiss, my chest tightening.
He crouches down slowly, resting his forearms on his knees like this is a casual conversation and not us talking about him killing my mother.
“Run,” he repeats. “That’s what she told you.”
The knife turns lazily in his fingers, the blade catching the kitchen light again. My gaze flickers between it and him.
“I was hoping you would.”
My pulse pounds in my ears; I can barely hear him over it.
“Why?” I whisper, my vision blurring as tears fall down my cheeks.
His eyes slide over my face, memorizing every detail.
“Because,” he murmurs, leaning slightly closer, “I’ve been waiting a long time to finally have you.”
My stomach drops, bile rising in my throat.
“No,” I choke, scrambling backward across the blood-slick tile. My hands slip, red smearing across the floor as panic slams into me all at once. He stands slowly, the knife hanging at his side again.
“You can run,” he shrugs, taking one step toward me. “But I’ll find you… I’ll always find you.”
His boots step through the blood pooling beneath my mother’s body.
I shove myself to my feet, my shoulder slamming into the wall as I bolt toward the hallway. My vision clouds as panic floods my veins; every nerve screams at me to get away, to not give him the chance to get his hands on me.
Behind me, his footsteps follow, unhurried, like he’s certain that he’s going to get me, as if he knows this is going to end.
But I won’t give him the chance.
My hand fumbles for the front door, fingers shaking and slipping as I grab the knob and twist. I yank on it, but it doesn’t open.
And then a hand clamps around my wrist in a bruising way, iron tight.
A scream rips from my throat as he yanks me backwards?—
I jolt upright in bed, a ragged gasp ripping out of my lungs as air crashes back into my chest. For a moment I can’t see anything but darkness, my heart pounding violently in my chest, each beat slamming against my ribs hard enough that it hurts and I just might throw up.
The copper taste from the dream still lingers on my tongue, phantom and sickening, like my body hasn’t realized yet that I’m not standing in that kitchen anymore.
I force another breath in and then another.
Slowly the room begins to come back into focus, no longer pitch black but more like a darkness that only comes from it being nighttime. The ceiling above me is familiar, the faint outline of a fan barely visible in the dim light.
For a moment, I let myself just sit there, staring at it. My brain struggles to catch up with my body, trying to piece everything together.
Then I notice the blanket, which I never use, and my body is wrapped in its warmth. A slow ripple of unease moves through my chest, and as I shift, I feel something beside me, and my heart freezes.
My entire body locks, every muscle going rigid as my pulse spikes again, panic flashing hot through my veins. The dream instantly jumps, flashes of blood, to his hands grabbing at me.
Slowly, carefully, I turn my head.
I frown, squinting my eyes, not believing it for a second—Zyran is lying beside me.
He’s on his back, one arm stretched loosely across the mattress near my shoulder.
The dim light cuts through the room, showing the sharp outlines of his jaw and the dark shadow of stubble along his face.
His chest rises and falls slowly beneath his shirt, steady and calm in a way that feels completely opposite to the chaos still echoing through my body.
He’s asleep, or at least he looks like he is.
My gaze sweeps across the room again, taking in the closed blinds, my bedroom door, which is cracked open, and the quiet stillness of the apartment—and then it hits me. The bathroom floor, the pounding in my skull, and his voice. Shh, easy, I got you.
The memory comes rushing back all at once.
How he had lifted me off the tile, the light stabbing through my eyes as he carried me out of the bathroom and into my room, the mattress dipping when he sat down next to me.
Oh god, his hand was working slow circles at the base of my neck while the pain in my head slowly started to loosen its grip.
My stomach tightens as I remember what I had said.
Don’t let him take me again.
A wave of embarrassment and dread rolls through me so fast it almost makes me nauseous.
Shit, I hadn’t meant to say those words out loud, and he heard them. There’s no freaking way I can take them back. No way, I can just pretend that I didn’t say them.
Oh, this is bad, very bad.
My pulse hasn’t slowed yet, and it won’t anytime soon.
I know he heard me, and that gave away far more than I ever meant to.
Even though I know I should get up, my body continues to lay here, staring at the ceiling for longer than I’d like, listening to the slow rhythm of Zyran’s breathing beside me and the frantic pounding of my own heart trying to calm down.
And the longer I lie there, the more aware I become of how close we are.
His body radiates heat through the blanket, steady and warm against the chill still clinging to my skin from the nightmare. My shoulder brushes his arm every time I breathe too deeply, the contact subtle but impossible to ignore.
Oh fuck, this is a mistake.
I shouldn’t be here.
But that doesn’t stop me from my gaze drifting toward his face again, watching him carefully for any sign that he might be awake. I mean if he is, he hides it well. His breathing stays slow, even, the kind of steady rhythm that only comes with real sleep.
It’s good though, because that means I can get out before this turns into something awkward, or worse.
Holding my breath, I carefully slide my hand out from beneath the blanket and push myself up just enough to test the mattress. The shitty thing dips with my weight, and I freeze immediately, my eyes flickering back to him.
He doesn’t move, but I wait another second just to be sure, and then I slowly start easing my way out of the bed.
Every movement is deliberate and quiet—something I’ve done hundreds of times before. The blanket slides against my leg as I pull it over the side of the mattress, the cool air of the room brushing against my skin the second the warmth disappears.
The floor feels cold beneath my feet when I finally stand, and for a moment I just stay there, steadying myself.
My migraine is still lingering somewhere behind my eyes, but it’s no longer the violent, skull-splitting pain from last night, just a dull pressure that pulses faintly with every heartbeat.
A shower, that’s what I can do. The hot water and the steam; anything to get the nightmare out of my head before it settles in again. Then I can decide what I want to do with the man in my bed.
My eyes scan the room until I spot the small pile of clothes I vaguely remember pushing off my bed when I tried lying down before going to the bathroom for the cool flooring. I bend down, grabbing them quietly and clutching the fabric against my chest before stepping towards the bedroom door.
I don’t stop moving until I’m in front of the bathroom, pushing it open and shutting it softly behind me.
The small space fills with the quiet click of the lock and the faint hum of the overhead light flickering on. I drop the clothes onto the counter before leaning over the sink, gripping the edge as I stare at my reflection
I look like absolute shit.
My eyes are still a little glassy from the migraine; the bruise has deepened across my face, and my hair, good lord, it looks like a rat’s nest—tangled and wild around my shoulders.
But that isn’t what holds my attention—it’s the expression etched into my brows, the one that always shows up right after a nightmare.
It’s always the one that’s too close to showing fear, the one that I try to keep buried and locked away.
I tear my gaze away before I can look at it too long and reach for the shower handle, twisting it until hot water roars to life from the pipes. It takes longer than it should for steam to begin filling the small bathroom, curling through the air.
Stripping out of my clothes, I step under the spray, the heat hits my shoulders first, then my neck, sliding down my spine in a rush that makes my muscles loosen despite everything.
I brace one hand against the shower wall as the water runs over my face, washing away the lingering sweat from the nightmare.
For a moment, I just stand there, breathing, trying to shake the image out of my head.
Blood on the tile, my mother’s voice telling me to run, and then his smile.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
No, not right now.
I don’t need to be thinking about that monster and what he did to my family; I don’t want to.
Tilting my head back under the water, I let it pour over my face until the last trace of the dream starts to dull around the edges, until it becomes nothing but a distant memory.
But no matter how long I stand there, trying to drown everything out, it’s not the nightmare that’s a problem.
I’m used to those, even before everything happened, before my parents… none of that bothers me. No, what’s confusing is the way my body relaxed the second Zyran wrapped his arm around me and the way I curled into him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
That’s what sits wrong in my chest—it’s dangerous. Attachment gets people killed.
I learned that lesson the hard way.
It’s something I need to remember, even if he helped me two nights ago. He might have carried me to bed and rubbed the tension out of my neck until the migraine faded away.
But that doesn’t mean anything; it doesn’t change the rules.
People who get close to me don’t stay safe—worse, they end up dead.