Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
MAVERICK
F ifty-seven. Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine. Sixty.
There. I’ve made it another minute in an endless existence.
I suck in a deep, steadying breath, waiting for pride to wash over me.
It doesn’t happen. It hasn’t in a long time.
When James Woodrow first threw me in here, when I was trapped for an entire year in a padded room, I used to count to pass the time.
It helped to keep from cracking under the pressure of constant isolation.
Each time I made it to sixty, I would mentally celebrate making it another minute with my mind intact.
That’s what most of the first year here at Serenity Falls consisted of: counting and celebrating small victories.
But then the doctors came for me. They took over my life, ripping me out of solitary and throwing me into a new hell. All celebrations stopped after. Not because I didn’t have any victories—they ceased because I ceased to be.
My psyche had shattered during my time in Rookwell Tower.
I don’t remember much from my time there.
Only pain and that I was experimented on.
Whatever drugs they gave me erased who I was—at least temporarily.
There are long stretches of time in my head that are unaccounted for.
It’s like they tore me into pieces then tried to Frankenstein me back together but left critical parts out.
By the time I was cast out into the general population, my mind had been so fractured and useless I couldn't function properly. Not knowing who I was, being randomly bombarded with pieces of a past I wasn’t sure was real or imagined. I’d been so fucking lost and scared.
All that translated into an endless pot of anger, which often led to lashing out.
Despite the fractured memories, the paranoia, crushing weight of desperation, and the depression, I tried during those first few months to tell others about James Woodrow and his son Peter.
It got me nowhere.
Every attempt to alert others, to tell them how I got here and what was happening at that damn pier…
it made me look like a raving lunatic. My outbursts were loud, incoherent ramblings, and mixed with all the pent-up anger I had at the world.
Looking back on myself then, I’m ashamed at how I’d squandered the opportunity to be taken seriously.
It didn’t matter that I had no ability to control my emotions, that my thoughts weren’t linear, and I barely knew who I was.
I scared people, and that fear lingers today, years later.
Luckily, at some point I figured out I needed to shut up.
It was then that I began to heal. Now, after two years of being out of Rookwell Tower, I recognize parts of myself when I look in the mirror.
Especially lately. The haze of anger and frustration is always there, but I’ve been decent about not letting it consume me.
But something’s shifted. Laying here, I can tell I’m coming apart, unraveling at the seams. Anxiety is clawing at my throat, and the ever present, angry haze is thickening around me.
I blame the unexpected visit from Everly as the catalyst to this shake up.
It’s nearly midnight, and there’s no sign of her.
I knew she wouldn’t be back; Everly’s a Woodrow after all.
She probably ran back to James with her tail between her legs, feeling like a failure.
If she’d been hoping to raise my spirits only to dash them, she failed.
I wonder if James was waiting right outside to hear her report of me, or if he made her drive back to her house in Seattle to give her report.
I hope it’s the latter. Knowing she’d let down her father and was probably stewing with dread about telling him makes me feel better.
Everly was bait, and I was clever enough not to take it. I wish I could take pride in the fact I’d chased her off. The thing is, her offer haunts me.
Freedom. She offered me freedom . She might as well have thrown a drowning man a lifeline.
I never knew Everly to be a cruel person.
In fact, if I really think back on my interactions with Peter’s little sister, I’ve only ever known her to be painfully sweet and reserved.
So for her to look me in the face and present something so intangible, to taunt me so heartlessly, James must’ve really sunk his claws into her.
I almost feel bad for her. What did James have to do to turn his daughter—the polar opposite of him—into a version of himself? It couldn’t have been an easy transition from good to evil for Little Evie. I bet she fought it for as long as she could before succumbing.
What a shame.
The deep breath I take comes out as a long, slow sigh. My gaze is trained on the ceiling as I try not to think of her and the cruel gift she’d offered.
One. Two. Three. Four…
I shift on the bed, trying to get comfortable.
The thin twin mattress is too small for me.
My shoulders practically hang off either side.
The pillow is as flat as a board and lacks any real stuffing—probably so patients won’t suffocate themselves or each other with them.
I’ve gotten used to the subpar conditions here.
It’s better than being in solitary confinement with my arms bound.
After a few minutes, I get comfortable again. Too comfortable. My eyelids slide shut as my brain begins to unwind in the silence.
Then I hear it.
I stiffen at the sound of footsteps outside my door.
They’re soft, nearly inaudible. But I know each and every noise this building makes.
I know when patients are wandering around, heading to the communal bathroom, watching their favorite movies, fucking.
There’s nothing I don’t hear. Compared to the utter silence of solitary confinement, every noise here is loud, sharp, and jarring—no matter how muted they are.
That’s how I know there’s someone lurking outside my door. I can practically hear them breathing as they hesitate, preparing to do god knows what.
It’s been a long time since someone’s thought to try to jump me in my bedroom. The guys Rowan and Braum sent this way over the years have tried and failed spectacularly every time.
Behind my head, my hands curl into fists. I tense, listening to the soft click as the lock disengages. Interesting. They have a keycard. They must’ve snagged it from the staff.
Slowly, the door opens. The soft whoosh as it glides over the wood floor is familiar. I’ve caused the same noise time and time again, day after day.
I don’t lift my head when I hear the door click shut, nor do I move at the light steps creeping toward me.
It’s not until they’re nearly right beside me that I strike out.
I lurch out of bed, surprising my assailant, who lets out a startled yelp.
Before they can finish the sound, they’re pinned to the floor with my hands wrapped around their neck as I straddle them.
The snarl that slips past my lips belongs to a beast, not a man.
I ignore the hands clawing at my face. I’m too busy squeezing their throat—ready to feel it snap under my touch.
In my initial tackle, my assailant’s hat fell into their face.
Wanting to see the fear of god in their expression, I reached up to grab it.
I don’t watch where I toss it, letting it hit the wall and disappear while I stare down at whoever thought this was a good idea.
I freeze when a pair of hazel eyes, wide and filled with alarm, stare up at me.
“M-M-” Everly can’t get my name out with how hard I’m squeezing.
My grip doesn’t relent. Not right away. I stare down into her fear-stricken face first with surprise, then with a heavy satisfaction. If hurting her means hurting James, I’m fine with that. Sucks to be Everly at this moment, but life’s not fair.
Yet even as I think that, my hands begin to relax of their own accord.
Everly’s full lips part to gasp the moment I allow her throat to expand.
As she coughs and sputters, I stare at her.
Dressed in all black, she looks more like a spy than the meek and meager little sister of my ex-best friend.
Her hair is pulled out of her face into a thick braid, but shorter strands have fallen free and lay haphazardly across her face.
Beneath me, her lithe body continues to thrash about, getting me unexpectedly hard.
Just like before, I’m taken off guard by the changes in her.
After she left this afternoon, I found myself wondering if I somehow made up how beautiful she’s become.
My mind occasionally plays tricks on me.
Why wouldn’t this be one of them? Staring down into Everly’s face, though, I think I might’ve downplayed her looks in my memory.
Sure, she’s not wearing that hot as fuck little sundress, but this all-black attire clings to her body and shows off the curves the dress hid earlier.
It would be easy to picture these long, shapely legs wrapped around my waist, my face between these glorious tits, and my cock buried so fucking deep inside her pussy.
Revulsion and desire riot in my gut.
Knowing my cock can get hard for a Woodrow makes me feel sick.
What’s worse is my mouth is watering as the scents of roses and vanilla reach my nostrils.
I hadn’t noticed it before, not over the stench of the gym, but I can smell it now.
The faint aroma lifting from Everly’s skin is so feminine and sweet, a stark contrast to the world I live in.
My cock strains harder against the front of my pajama bottoms.
“Maverick!” Everly hisses, her hands coming up to claw at mine. “It’s me! Let go!”
Her voice jerks me out of my appraisal.
Instead of unwrapping my hands completely from around her throat, I bend down and growl, “Didn’t I tell you the next time I saw you, I’d kill you? What the fuck are you doing, creeping into my room? Do you have a death wish?”
“I’m here to save you!” She replies then has the audacity to glare up at me.