Chapter 8
Russell
The magpie’s quiet, rattling squeak makes me open my eyes, along with another familiar sound somewhere in the distance.
I blink sharply and lift my head. When I turn around, I realize there’s no one in bed with me.
The memories of what we did flood my mind immediately, sending prickling heat into my cheeks.
The bird and I look at each other—it perches at the edge of the fireplace mantel—and I smile. “I really hope you didn’t understand what was happening,” I mumble.
As my brain properly awakens, I set aside my embarrassment about the magpie watching us go completely feral and begin to wonder where Wren has gone.
Something makes me uneasy. An unexplainable sense that something is wrong, like the whispering instinct I used to get in combat situations.
Frowning to myself, I look around the bed for my clothes. I should probably check on Wren. He must be downstairs.
I sit up and instantly feel something leaking out of me. It’d probably be best to take a shower, but…no. That sensation keeps nagging at me, like a distant red light blinking in alarm. I can’t ignore it. I hop into the bathroom to wipe myself down quickly with a wet sponge.
Maybe his head is hurting again, and he’s looking for more pills? He seemed okay earlier when we were having sex, but—
I pause, staring at the floor. Hmm… My shirt. My pants lay to the side. Tapping at my chest, I notice the absence of my necklace. I comb through the lust-hazed memories, and I remember Wren getting it off with the rest of my clothes.
But now, it isn’t here.
I continue searching for it while dressing up. I ignore the slight ache in my lower back as I do. After throwing the blanket around to explore any possible place it could be and coming up empty, my stomach constricts with a rattling realization. That knowing sensation only intensifies.
Wren.
Why would he take it?
To get more painkillers? I reach for the open packet on the side table by the bed, next to his phone, checking the contents and…
there’s still half a sheet of pills left.
He was snooping near the medicine cabinet before, and that made me feel sorta uneasy, too.
Like that strange, bitter sadness I sensed in his pheromones had something to do with it.
The sharp movement I make toward the door causes the magpie to take off in panic and flutter against the ceiling, but I don’t even care. My heart pounds in my chest like a war drum. That red light keeps getting brighter and brighter in the endless darkness of my mind.
Something definitely isn’t right.
I descend the stairs quietly, my pulse echoing inside my ears.
As I open the door into the store, I don’t know what I’m expecting to see. Nothing, probably. I hope to see nothing out of the ordinary, because I want this horrible premonition to be a fluke. An ugly remnant from the time when I needed such paranoia to survive.
But it isn’t nothing.
Wren meets my gaze with a gasp, having just turned around from the cabinet, two blister packs of tablets cradled in his hands. His eyes go wide, and there’s something disturbingly, unmistakably frantic in them that scares me.
My entire body tenses up. I’ve seen that look before. What’s in front of me right now is almost a perfect recreation.
Lieutenant Brown. He was a great leader. A good man. He always kept a clear head in the most difficult situations. Always held it together when others couldn’t. I admired him. I lay in my bunk at night, wondering how I could be more like him.
Until the day we were clearing out a town under suspicion of harboring weapons and enemy terrorists. I walked in on him beating up a civilian, completely frenzied, out of control and wanting only one thing.
The one thing that has kept him going. That has kept him so in control of his life.
At least that’s the way he saw it. It didn’t matter what he had to do to get it then. He had the exact same look… Disgust and need and regret and unstoppable determination, all swirling behind his bloodshot eyes.
“What are you doing?” The words finally come out of my mouth, ringing so loud in my ears that it hurts. My cheeks prickle with blood pumped full of adrenaline.
Wren blinks, jerks, looks back, then down at his hands, before shaking his head.
“I…I just wanted…” His voice is weak and small. Quivering.
I home in on the sheets he is holding. Truth is, barely anyone ever buys stuff from that cabinet.
The people around here have their home remedies for most ailments, and they only go for pharmaceuticals when they have no other choice.
I’m not the most knowledgeable on it, but…
I think at least some of what he’s clenching against his chest like it’s some treasure is the Oxycodone I have in stock.
Darting my attention back to him again, another chilling sensation passes through me. “Wren…?”
This isn’t what it looks like, right? Can’t be.
It is. You know it is.
I see it on his face. The feral panic of an addict caught red-handed. He’s like a wild animal being pushed into a corner, chest rising quickly and shallowly, giving me an unblinking stare as if he’s ready to protect those little pills with his life if he has to.
He opens his mouth and tries to say something—I know he is because of how his tongue flails around inside his mouth—but then his throat constricts and he lets out a frustrated huff instead, shaking his head with a groan.
I barely stop the urge to raise my voice, demanding that he speak up.
He can’t.
“Put them down.”
He jerks away when I make a step toward him, tightening his grip on the pills. With lips pressed into a tight line and nostrils flaring, he shakes his head again. I back him into the enclosed area behind the counter, and that isn’t ideal, but what else am I supposed to do?
His gaze follows me as I approach, slowly moving up as if he’s realizing how tall I am.
“Put them down, Wren,” I say, keeping my voice controlled, while reaching under the counter.
Instead of whatever attack he expects, I pull out a small notepad I keep there, and the pen tucked into it.
“Let go and answer me.” I push the notepad toward him on the counter.
No matter how calm I am fighting to stay, I need him to know I am not going to back down.
He took the key and came here without a word.
Did he…
A wave of nausea hits me. Then a dull stab right through my chest.
Was…what happened between us an excuse to do this? I ball my fists, inhaling slowly to temper my emotions until I get an answer out of him.
Wren darts his eyes all over our surroundings. Seeing no escape, he exhales and, discontentedly, throws the pills on the counter.
His hands tremble. And not just in the anxious sort of way.
In one sharp, frustrated motion, he runs his hand through his blond hair to push it back, but it falls into his pale face again right away.
He’s biting down on his lip when he reaches for the notepad and opens it.
There’s no other sound besides the distant whooshing of the wind from the outside as we stand there, and he stares at the empty page, the pen resting on it but not moving.
“Why did you want these pills? Why did you—”
He starts writing something rather aggressively, then turns the page to me.
‘Anything to get the edge off’
My heart sinks in near-perfect synchronization with my brows.
Damnit…
I draw in an inhale through my pursed lips and rub my hand over my jaw. There’s no point in dancing around this now. “You’re an addict?” I ask plainly.
He doesn’t seem to like the question. Snorting, he quickly scribbles something else.
‘Yeah I’m a fucking addict. But I think I deserve this considering the circumstances’
Wren theatrically glances around before pointing to the windows with his hand that isn’t holding the notepad, getting a little too close to my face.
I’m overwhelmed by a dizzying mix of emotions.
I feel angry at him and hurt, while simultaneously being aware that he owes me nothing.
We’re strangers. There were never any stipulations about my inviting him to stay here.
I would’ve done it even if I had known he was an addict.
But he also betrayed my trust. He stole the key; he planned this.
All these pills…what if he’d taken them and overdosed? What if he hurt himself and I were to find his body? How could he put that on my shoulders?
‘Dead mother. Nearly crashed in my car. Stuck in this fucking shithole against my will. REMEMBER??’
I blink at the new message displayed in front of me and frown before taking a step back. “No, you don’t. You don’t deserve this at all,” I mutter, side-eyeing the drugs.
I thought it would be impossible, but his face twists into an even more disgusted, bitter grimace. He scowls, and when he writes, it’s more like he’s stabbing the paper to death.
‘Don’t pity me’—it says in huge letters across the entire page.
He drops the notepad and goes to reach for the pills.
I advance and push him aside, stepping between him and the counter despite the fact we both barely fit into the small space.
Wren looks like he is completely losing it, measuring me up and immediately trying to squeeze through again, eyes filling with tears, his pheromones seeping out but smelling only of terror and pain and desperation.
“Stop,” I urge him.
I try to grab his wrists to calm him down, but he slips away with a grunt and stumbles back. His attention keeps turning to the pills as if he physically can’t help it. As if they’re the only thing he cares about.
Letting out sharp, irregular gasps, he hugs his head with his arms and walks in a circle until another wave of whatever horrible emotion overcomes him, and he punches the wall next to him with a strangled cry.
Is it really this bad? How long has he been feeling this way?
The entire time he’s been here? He seemed…fine. Or did he? Did I just not look hard enough? How was I not able to tell that he was suffering all along?