Chapter 60
CHAPTER SIXTY
I can’t tell if I had the most arousing dream or if Holland actually smacked me around in a chair. Reality is scrambled in my brain, and I feel like I’ve been drinking for days. Which is weird, because I don’t drink.
Holland and Oakley exist around me like some sort of weird roommates.
Roommates? The thought is absurd, but as I watch them around me, doing the dishes and cooking food, it doesn’t feel absurd.
In my dream, Holland said she had nothing to do with Weston.
When I’m not dreaming, I’ve been keeping a close eye on him through the computer system.
From what I can see on the cameras and what I can track on the map, it looks like he’s slaughtering the rest of the prey, amassing a group of hunters.
Not safe! The tiny voice in my head that’s been screaming since Weston got released from jail continues to ring warning bells.
I need to kill him. I’ve studied what I can, and now I need to hunt him down. I shouldn’t do it alone, but what other choice do I have?
I’m on my way to my stash of guns when I run into a soft body. Holland looks up at me with a gasp. There’s a startle of…something in her eyes before she narrows her gaze.
What was that? Why is she looking at me like that?
My stomach clenches in a mix of anxiety and something that is absolutely not anxiety. In fact, it feels a lot like…excitement. Which is completely fucked up.
I clear my throat. “Where you going?” The question comes out more like a demand.
I can’t help myself. It seems the excitement has gone from my dick to my brain, turning it to mush.
I should be focused on Weston and not flirting with the wild card in my house.
I shouldn’t, but I can’t seem to help myself.
There’s something about this woman that just quiets that voice in my head.
Holland plants a small hand on my chest and shoves. It does nothing and yet everything at the same time. My knees go weak, and my breathing picks up. My dick is hard as stone.
Holland cocks her head, eyes darting between mine, then flickering down to my mouth.
I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry.
“I was getting a snack. Is that okay, your highness?” Her voice is mocking, using the same words I used in the dream. My heart takes off like we’re in a race.
“That’s what I thought,” she sneers, pushing past me, stalking down the hall like a queen.
My legs bow, like my body wants to follow her with a magnetic pull. There was so much…hatred in her eyes. I have no doubt she’d hurt me. Which, against all odds, makes me want her even more.
I know from my past research that Holland is a therapist from Oklahoma, with living parents but no other immediate family.
I couldn’t find much for her on social media, but what I did see looked fake as hell—her smiling in front of a city skyline, some picture of a flower with an inspirational quote, a mirror selfie.
But in every picture, she was alone. Also, her eyes looked…
empty. They looked nothing like the eyes I just saw in the hallway. Here, she looks alive.
I suppose she hates me for bringing her here. They all do. It’s normal to hate the person who signs your death warrant, but there isn’t just hate in her eyes. There’s life. It’s like she doesn’t have a tiny voice in her head screaming that she’s not safe. Or, if she does, she ignores it.
Where does that life come from? Not from whatever fake reality she posts online. That Holland would wilt in the face of danger. I know for a fact that this Holland would look someone like Weston in the face and spit.
I stare blankly at the place she disappeared down the hall.
I want that life from her. I want her to tie me down, cut me open, and transplant whatever that is into my chest. Carve the voice from my brain and replace it with the simplicity she presented me with when she pointed that gun in my face. Die or obey.
I straighten, suddenly determined. I want that. How does one get that?
The soft sounds of conversation float down the hallway. Holland and Oakley are talking. There’s something about their tone that makes me freeze.
“You gonna make me do the dishes again?” Holland asks.
“Doing dishes is better than staring at the rain.”
“I’m not a housewife,” her voice is snarky.
“You could be.”
A flare of something possessive curls in my chest. Is this oaf…flirting with her? Suddenly, all I want to do is stomp down that hall and pick Oakley up by the scruff of his neck. It makes no sense; all I know is that that dominant, angry therapist is mine.
I see red. I storm down the hallway and burst into the kitchen. Both turn to look at me in surprise, and suddenly, all I feel is their eyes on me, and I realize I’ve just shown weakness. My face is so hot it feels like it’s on fire, but I can’t stop myself.
I point a trembling hand at him. “Do the dishes.”
Oakley’s mouth drops open, but after a beat, he frowns and moves to obey.
I don’t look at Holland. I can’t. I can’t see what she thinks of my weakness. Instead, I turn and dart back to my bedroom, slamming the door.
My heart beats so hard it feels like I can’t pull in a breath, and I pace in front of my dresser. What the hell was that? Everything is wrong, even the way I’m acting. Since when do I get possessive over a woman? It’s my policy not to let women close. A policy that has worked well for me.
So why do I still want to bash Oakley’s face in?
I need to get a grip. Going to the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face. It’s then that I notice the orange sticky note on the mirror.
I stare at it for a minute. Kyan helps around the island with tasks I don’t want to handle. When the hell was he in my house? And how does he know Holland?
My thoughts race in a confusing mix. Confusion, anger, and once again, that loud note of fear. The same fear I’ve been trying to smother.
The note settles over me like a bucket of ice water. Is the one thing that’s given me a small amount of peace dangerous to me?
My fists clench, and before I can stop myself, I smash my right one into the mirror.
I just want to feel fucking safe.