Chapter 64
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
It’s sticky and humid out here, and it makes me feel like I can’t breathe. I find myself longing for the perpetually sunny, dry air of Oklahoma, which I never thought I’d find myself saying.
It’s dark out, but the sky is starting to turn gray, and I breathe in the muggy air. Still better than being inside that suffocating house. I need to be alone, not responsible for anyone else’s feelings but my own.
There’s so much pressure in my chest that it makes me want to scream. Screaming into a pillow is a proven way to relieve stress. So I do. I scream into my elbow, muffling the sound as much as I can. The scream contains pent-up rage, injustice, and confusion.
How is this my fault?
I’m mad at Kyan. I’m mad at him for humiliating me and for blaming me for everything that’s happening.
I’m mad that I can see the turmoil in those dark eyes.
I’m mad at Wyatt for running this island in the first place, and I’m mad that I see the fear that’s etched so deeply in his soul that I can’t separate the scared man from the violent one.
I scream again and again until I’m lightheaded. Until it feels like I have nothing left. And then I just stand there, staring at the trees until a breeze moves through them, making them rustle.
I pull in a breath.
That’s when I hear it. The pounding of feet behind me.
Immediately, I start running. I got a false sense of safety and fucking forgot where I was.
I run as fast as I can, heart racing, immediately wishing I brought the gun. Why didn’t I bring the gun? I hid it at the bottom of the trashcan so only I would have access to it, but I was so bothered I fucking forgot.
Now it’s gonna cost me my life.
“Come here!” The voice is gruff and mean, and I can tell they’re catching up to me. I run as fast as I can, but it’s not enough. A body slams into me, shoving me into the hard ground. Something slices down right by my face, yanking my hair as it goes.
I scream, thrashing around to face the man. He’s struggling to get back up, a slightly off look on his face that confuses me for a second until I clock the glassy eyes and the smell. Alcohol.
“Weston’s been looking for you,” he slurs. I kick my foot out, aiming for his knee, and he topples slightly, grabbing something beside my head. No, not something. A sword.
I roll away immediately, scrambling to my feet, but he yanks me back by my feet, and I hit the ground hard. I roll to face him, and he’s right there. Even in his inebriated state, he’s fast. He fumbles with his zipper with one hand while crawling over me with the other.
“Pretty thing, aren’t you?”
I scream and slam my head up. It hits his with a clunk that has me seeing stars. I can’t move for a second, and when I can see again, the man is laughing, grabbing the sword, and lifting it up.
Then, he falls into me. I roll, avoiding the blade before he’s levitating into the air. His whole body is up, and then he’s flying into a tree, still with a grip on the sword.
I scramble to my feet, unable to process what’s happening before I see Wyatt throwing a punch into the guy’s face. The man groans, a floppy drunk, hand jerking a flash of silver in the dark.
Wyatt growls, “You touched something that belongs to me.” He steps into the man, ignoring the blade.
I watch it like it’s happening in slow motion. I watch Wyatt step into danger for me with a sickening feeling of finality. I picture the blade piercing through his stomach, the agonizing moments of hope and confusion before he dies, and that blank, empty look settling over his eyes.
There’s screaming floating around us, high-pitched and eerie. Wyatt wraps his hands around the man’s head and twists. There’s a crunch, then the man slumps over.
I watch, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for something to happen to Wyatt like Connor and Elijah. And the waiting fills me with fear as devastating as ice pumped through my veins.
Wyatt turns to me, and that’s when I see it. The blood on his groin. It’s dark, just like it was with Elijah. And for a second, Wyatt’s top knot falls loose, and then all I see are Elijah’s curls.
“Are you hurt?” The words sound fuzzy.
“I…” I can’t get any words out around the nightmare unfolding in front of me. It’s happening again. He’s going to die. I curse everyone around me.
“We have to go.” I’m yanked forward, and when I look up, a form is pulling me through the trees.
Only it’s not Elijah, it’s Wyatt. My pulse is thundering, and I want to fight him, but I don’t, and I’m trapped in that frozen place waiting for the blood to stain the rest of his pants.
Waiting for him to hunch over and crumple silently.
That eerie screaming is back, and Wyatt jerks me roughly. “Shut the fuck up.”
Slowly, absently, I realize the sound is me.
I close my mouth, but it feels like the screaming continues.
Someone else. I’ve killed someone else.
Wyatt doesn’t slow for me. I must be following him, but I feel like I’m floating. And as I do, I recognize the symptoms of dissociation quicker than I did the last time.
I’m having a trauma response.
I try to force myself to breathe. In for four, hold for seven, only seven feels like an eternity.
I can only hold for two before I’m gasping for breath again.
I keep trying, though, and by the time I can hold for four, I see we’ve made it back to the well-beaten path, and all I hear is the sound of our breath and footsteps.
Wyatt keeps looking around, throwing me a quick glance. He’s still alive. Why is he still alive?
Breathe, Holli, breathe.
Wyatt trips, and I look down.
He has no shoes on, his feet pale in the dim light of dawn. Why the hell doesn’t he have shoes on?
I’m so distracted that I accidentally bump into his back, and Wyatt lets out a grunt of what sounds like pain.
That fuzzy panic starts to take over my brain again, but I screw my eyes shut, breathing in and out. I can’t panic right now. We have to get back safely.
Wyatt is still gripping my hand so hard it hurts. When we make it back to the house, and the lights fall across Wyatt, I again see the dark blood staining his pants.
“Get inside.” He takes one last look over his shoulder and shoves me in the front door.
Once inside, I don’t feel like a band has been removed from around my chest. If anything, it feels tighter. Wyatt is bleeding just like Elijah was.
My body locks up, frozen for a second. I force myself to take another breath as Oakley crowds around us.
This is stupid. I shouldn’t be panicking about…my kidnapper?
But the thought feels flat, and that panic still coils inside me. He’s hurt, and I can’t argue any longer. I fucking care.