4. Sina
I was bone tired when I got home.
I planned to take full advantage of Jack closing down at midnight and catch up on some much needed sleep. Working five nights a week at a bar combined with chronic nightmares made sleep almost impossible.
I locked the door, checking the deadbolt and chain twice out of habit.
Not like those locks could really keep anyone out.
But the ritual steadied something inside me.
I stood there a second longer, eyes sweeping the room.
Bed untouched, blanket rumpled, exactly how I’d left it.
The fire escape window behind my couch was closed.
There was a part of my paranoia that needed proof I was safe here.
The best part about my small studio flat was the lack of hiding places.
I tossed my keys onto the counter. The laminate was peeling up at the edges, fake wood curling like dead skin.
I shivered.
The heater was still broken. It had been for weeks. I doubted my landlord would fix it anytime soon. The elevator had been out of commission since I moved in a year ago. Living on the fourth floor had definitely made my legs stronger.
My breath fogged in front of me. The chill in the air rattled my bones. I should shower. Boil the cold out of my bones.
Instead I went to the fridge. The light flickered when I opened it.
Empty shelves stared back at me. A pizza box sat on the top rack.
I grabbed the last slice of cardboard and bit into it.
The crust was stiff. I chewed once. I frowned and glanced down at the slice in my hand.
Maggots writhed across the cheese. My stomach heaved.
The slice slipped from my fingers, and I spat into the sink.
I staggered back, gagging, bile burning the back of my throat.
“What the fuck? ”
My hands were shaking as I grabbed a glass from the cabinet, nearly dropping it as I shoved it under the tap. The water sputtered out unevenly. I didn’t wait for it to fill. I just drank, gulping too fast, water spilling down my chin.
A creak sounded behind me.
That’s when I noticed how quiet it was. No city noise drifting in from the fire escape window. No distant sirens. No hum of traffic. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. The quiet pressed in so hard it made my ears ring.
“Hello, little mouse.”
Slowly I looked over my shoulder.
Keith stood a few feet away.
My gaze flew to the door. The chain was still in place. It was like he had stepped out of the shadows themselves.
“This isn’t real.”
He smiled cruelly, like he’d been waiting for me to say that.
A knife was suddenly in his hand, blade gleaming. I didn’t see him pull it out. It was just there. One second the blade was clean and in the next blink, blood ran down his wrist and dripped onto the floor.
My breath sawed in and out of my chest. My lungs squeezed so hard I thought I might pass out from lack of oxygen. The glass fell from my hands, shattering, shards and water hitting my bare feet.
Run, Sina.
But my feet wouldn’t move.
A wet gurgling sound snapped my gaze to the couch.
Logan .
His throat split open ear to ear. A fresh wave of crimson flowed down his chest, soaking into the cushions beneath him. His hands were pressed uselessly to his neck. His eyes found mine.
“No no no. You’re dead. He killed you.” Keith chuckled darkly. “I’ll kill anyone to have you.”
The word landed like a slap.
He glanced at Logan like he was nothing, then focused back on me. Bile rose in my throat. His eyes weren’t brown anymore. They burned an orangey gold.
“ Mine. ”
His claim wrapped around my ribs and squeezed.
The light flickered overhead, shadows stretching across the linoleum, and his body began to change.
Not all at once. Slowly. Horribly. Bones pushed beneath his skin, shoulders widening, arms lengthening as black fur tore through flesh.
His jaw forced itself forward, teeth stretching into long, curved blades as his mouth widened far past human.
Keith dropped to all fours. The man was gone. In his place was something massive and black, muscle rolling under sleek fur, orange eyes locked on Logan who somehow stood near the fridge now.
The panther pounced. Logan screamed once before its jaws closed around his throat, tearing it open in a spray of blood that exploded outward—hot, choking, everywhere. It splashed across my face and chest, soaked my clothes, slicked the floor beneath my hands as I fell to my knees.
Logan’s body hit the linoleum right next to me and didn’t move again. The panther turned toward me, blood dripping from its mouth as it stalked forward. Fear stole the air from my lungs. I scrambled to stand, rushing toward the bathroom, bare feet slipping in blood.
The door slammed shut just as he hit it from the other side.
The handle jerked violently in my grip. The wood rattled under massive claws scraping down the other side.
The impact shook the frame again and again.
The door bowed inward as Keith’s beast threw its weight against it, snarling viciously.
I pressed myself against the door, screaming, certain it was about to give, certain I was about to die.
Tears clouded my vision. The tile beneath my feet creaked. I glanced down to see wood grain bleeding through white ceramic, spreading like a stain. A whimper lodged in my throat.
“ How —”
The air changed first. Beer and blood coating the back of my throat. Damp. Metallic. The walls stretched taller. Narrower. The flickering bathroom light thinned into a single dangling bulb above my head.
I was standing at the top of Logan’s basement stairs.
“This isn’t real.”
I cried harder, a terror I couldn’t escape squeezing my chest like a vice. Something shifted in the dark. A sharp crack. Then another. Wet. Grinding. Bone snapping and sliding back into place.
“No. You’re not real.”
A growl rolled up from below. Low and animalistic. It vibrated through the wood and into my bones. I forced myself to turn around, my back resting against the wooden door, the movement behind it now silent. Two glowing orange-gold eyes opened at the bottom of the stairs.
I gasped, fingers fumbling for the door handle behind me, never breaking eye contact. If I looked away, he’d pounce. My lungs burned. My hands were numb.
I found the handle, twisted.
And the floor vanished beneath me, and I was falling backward into nothing—
I sat up quickly. My knife clutched in my hand. I was in my bed, in my apartment, gasping for air, my heart hammering, my skin soaked in cold sweat. My hands shook as I dragged them over my face, grounding myself in the silence, in the absence of blood.
It was just a dream.
That was what Dr. Bloom had told me. Trauma did this. My brain turned Keith into a beast because it was easier than remembering the truth. Keith hadn’t turned into anything. He had slit his brother’s throat with a knife that night in the basement.
I shoved my blade back under my pillow.
I swallowed hard and rolled onto my side, forcing the image away like I always did. Because believing it was only a nightmare was the only way I could sleep at all.
I flipped onto my back and squinted at the offensive red numbers glowing from the clock. 5:30 a.m. I thought I’d catch up on some much-needed rest.
Apparently fucking not .
I dragged the pillow over my face and screamed into it, the sound swallowed and muffled by fabric.
I was sick and tired of the night terrors.
I punched it twice in frustration, fluffing it uselessly before flopping it back under my head and staring up at the peeling paint and water marks on the ceiling.
I wished Bloom wasn’t leaving. It felt like abandonment and I hated it. I blinked back tears as I considered group therapy. I still had an alarm set for nine A.M..
I could go?
I scoffed. I didn’t need a group of strangers asking about my husband’s murder or dissecting my suicide attempt. I didn’t need the sympathetic looks or the careful questions about how I was ‘processing . ’
With the decision made, I forced my eyes closed and slowed my breathing. In. Out. Anything to shut my brain off for five freaking minutes.
No matter how hard I tried, my brain refused to cooperate. I blew out a long breath in frustration and hugged the pillow to my chest. As soon as my eyes closed again, the stranger from the bar consumed my thoughts.
His dark brown eyes had a pull I couldn’t resist. The memory of his voice rolled through me, low and rough. I’d never heard a voice so deep before. It scratched at an itch inside me that had never been touched.
He'd asked me if I was satisfied. I had wanted to say no, just to see what else he'd do. But I hadn't .
What a missed opportunity.
I groaned, rolling over. I couldn’t get comfortable.
A low ache heated my core.
Stop it, Sina. Don’t think about him.
And yet I couldn’t get him out of my head.
Though I had to admit, fantasizing about my mystery man was better than thinking about Keith.
Fuck I was in trouble .
Yes, he was attractive. Handsome. Lethal. But that didn’t matter. Handsome men could still be monsters. Logan had seemed handsome once too. Ten years ago when we met. Look where that had gotten me.
Broken and alone and shaking off the remnants of a night terror.
Still, that didn’t mean I couldn’t use the fantasy to escape reality right?
I snorted softly. I’d added him to my mental rub club alongside Vin Diesel and Jason Momoa.
See? No therapy required. Just a little self care.
Was I satisfied? Echoed again.
My core throbbed at the hidden meaning in the word.
No I wasn't fucking satisfied .
I focused on his cinnamon and motor oil scent instead of the beer and blood soaked basement.
My breathing slowed. My body eased, chasing sensation instead of fear.
My fingers drifted down my chest, brushing against my nipples.
I groaned, envisioning his hands on my body, ghosting over my ribs teasingly.
I tugged at the edge of my sleep shorts, slid my fingers lower.
Heat pooled already. I spread myself, let my fingers explore, let them press where I wanted, where I needed.
I was wet . So wet it was almost too slippery.
My breath hitched. My fingers moved without thinking, guided by the memory of him.
His hands. His voice. His strength. That fucking sexy growl. I shouldn’t want him. But I did . I trembled, hips pressing into myself, back arching slightly.
I came fast, faster than I expected.
I was panting, body humming with pleasure as I collapsed back on my pillow. The last thing I saw before sleep finally dragged me under was that brief, impossible flash of red in his dark gaze.