Soul of a Psycho

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Sky

I hold the gauze against the wound, trying not to get distracted by Cade’s shirtless form, and continue to reprimand him.

“Why the hell do you even need a booby trap?” I gape around the shack.

Save for his drawer of knives and his little bird collection, there’s nothing but old junk covered with tarps in here. Supplies of duct tape, wires, and paint. I don’t remember it being so full the last time I was here, but I was also… occupied. Does he use all this stuff or was it in here before he took over? The duct tape looks new. And so do the shiny spools of conduit. But it doesn’t matter. An ax is excessive.

“Does it need stitches?” Cade asks, ignoring my question.

I peel the gauze back and take a look. It’s a clean swipe across his shoulder blade, bleeding like a sieve, but it’s superficial. He will be fine, though he should realize it could have been much worse.

“Yeah,” I squeak, as if it’s really bad. “At least ten or twenty.” I lie.

He growls, and I smile to myself, Serves him right.

He stands and I quickly school my features, catching the gauze as it falls off his back. The blood drips down his skin, perfect red rivulets, and there’s something intoxicating about it. How can he get sexier while seeping blood? I have to resist the urge to run my tongue along his flesh, reminding myself that would be unhinged.

He opens a little drawer in the desk and pulls out a tin, tossing it to me.

“Unlike you, I would prefer it to be quick instead of right,” he says.

I have no idea what he’s talking about until I slide the lid off to find sutures and a needle, and I realize he’s referring to when I let him sow me up. I wanted it quick at first, but then settled on right, and every second of it was torture. There’s no way I’m giving him stitches.

“I’d do it myself, but I can’t reach,” he says as the color drains from my face. “It’s easy. I’ll walk you through it.”

I blink at him, having a hard time comprehending that he would let me poke at him with a needle, that he even thinks I would have the stomach to pierce through his skin.

He sighs. “I can’t go to the infirmary, Sky The nurse will want to know what happened.”

“I’m not giving you stitches!” I blurt.

“It’ll be fine. I’ve had to do it before.” He turns and points to a scar on his shoulder, clenching his jaw. “It seems I’m the only one that gets hit by that fucking thing.”

“No.” I shake my head. “I’m not giving you stitches because you don’t need stitches.” Thank god. “I was kidding. I just wanted—You’ve been hit with the ax before?”

I stand and run my fingers along the raised scar, my heart suddenly falling like a brick into my stomach. I can’t help but feel like everything he’s doing to protect himself only hurts him more. God only knows why he thinks he needs an ax to defend this place, but it’s only him who has suffered from it. And isolating himself out here, safeguarding his soul from those that threaten to break him, only fractures him further. No one could come out unscathed from living like this, in a shack and in solitude.

“You lied?” He smirks, as if it’s amusing.

My first instinct is to boast that I finally got one over on him, but with his trauma a tangible thing beneath my fingers, I realize my own trauma is not something to be proud of. I’m no better off than him. I lie to protect myself from my father and society’s judgment, but it strips me of genuine experiences. I’m not going to come out unscathed either. The only difference is my self-inflicted wounds are internal.

But I didn’t come out here to wallow in the tragedy of our lives. I came out here to do the opposite. Stepping away, I pour some of the rubbing alcohol Cade pulled out onto a fresh piece of gauze and clean him up. He has a whole box, along with other first aid items, and I surmise it’s from the last time he had a near miss with the ax. I adhere some surgical tape around a square of the gauze and press it to his skin.

“You’ll live,” I say, trying for a smile, and hand him his shirt,

The sun is just starting to go down, but maybe we can catch a few of the descending rays and go for a walk. I know I can’t recreate the spontaneity of an ice fight, but there must be—

“I’m going to die, anyway.”

My chin falls. “What?”

He catches my gaze and winces, but then pulls his shirt on and shrugs. “We all die eventually, right?”

I bite my lip and turn so he can’t see my face, so he can’t see how much his outlook saddens me. Yes, we all die eventually, but it’s a bleak thing to think about. I fiddle with a roll of tape, stacking it on top of another, and busy myself with straightening the mess. This isn’t going how I wanted today to go. I’m not getting him out of his head at all. He needs to play, to let loose, to have fun .

I pick up a notebook to put it on a pile of textbooks and then stop as an idea emerges. I clutch the small leather book to my chest instead, using it as a shield against whatever solemn answer he’ll have for my idea.

“Do you want to go to dinner?” I turn to him. “I don’t know what’s open, but we have a couple hours before they lock the gates.”

His eyes flick from mine to my chest and then back again.

“What?” He stuffs his hands in his pockets.

God, he’s pretty. The way his arms flex and how his hair falls over his eyes. He’s tall to begin with, but being in such a small space with him, he somehow feels all powerful, and am I really asking him on a date right now?

“Dinner?” I hug the journal tighter, feeling silly.

We’ve slept together, done numerous intimate things together, and it was he who said we are official. It’s a perfectly normal thing to go to dinner together. But Cade is not normal. He’s not movies and dinner and flowers, he’s graveyards and rainy days and knives. Dinner seems so ordinary in his presence.

“Can you put that down?” he asks.

It takes me a second to realize he means the notebook, and I furrow my brows.

“No,” I say, uncertain and a bit irked. Why does he get to keep ignoring my questions? “Do you want to go out to eat?” I push harder.

“Just give it to me.” He reaches out with one hand, the other still in his pocket.

“No.” I take a step back, tightening my grip. I should just let him have it, but something about giving him what he wants seems like defeat, seeing as he won’t give me what I want: An answer.

“Sky.” His eye slightly twitches, and a vein in his neck thumps.

“ Cade. ” I retort playfully.

We go into a staring contest, and though I can’t see him having a personal journal, I suspect I’m holding something close to it with the way he’s acting. I would be lying if I said a tiny part of me isn’t thrilled to be this close to his deepest thoughts. Would it be filled with more macabre or does he have a brighter side he keeps hidden away? I would never read it, but just the possession of it feels like I’m holding a rare gem.

And I don’t want to let it go.

He lunges, and I shriek, dipping under his arm. He might be stronger and bigger, but I’m smaller and quicker. I have no problem slipping out of his reach and swinging open the door, all while still clutching the journal. A giggle climbs up my throat as I skip into the clearing in front of the shack. Maybe this could be the fun I wanted for us.

“You want it?” I taunt him as he reaches the threshold. “You’ll have to catch me first.”

“Don’t,” he says, taking a step forward.

I mirror his movement in reverse, getting ready to run, and he freezes.

“Sky,” he warns, but I just smile and count to three in my head.

Then I bolt.

I’m breathless and giggling as I weave through the foliage. Down, left, right, I run, throwing glances over my shoulder. I can make out the blurs of black against the budding twigs, so I know he’s chasing me, but I expected him to gain on me quicker. Maybe I’m faster than him. I do feel like I’m flying with the way sun warmed dew splashes my arms, and the careless way I let the damp boughs snag my stockings. This is way more fun than getting chased by a lunatic with their face painted. It’s just Cade, and when he catches me, it will be welcome and not full of fear.

“You’re too slow,” I holler, teasing him.

I’m panting, a sheen of sweat coating my skin as I come up on a stream. Ice crystals float lazily, casting rainbow prisms onto the trunks of the trees. It’s beautiful, and I hop over it, hoping to see from the direction of the setting sun. I’m mesmerized and still catching my breath when boots suddenly thud beside me. The journal is pulled from my hand, but I don’t mind.

“Have you seen this before?” I ask, glad he finally caught up. If there’s anything that could cheer him up, it would be this. “It’s so—”

My words are cut as Cade thrusts me against a tree. It’s forceful, not painful, but the knife at my neck has me gulping, breath suddenly catching in my throat. His frenzied gaze is the opposite of playful, and unease creeps into my voice as I struggle to speak without tensing against the blade.

“What are you doing?” I eye his fist, knuckles white around the hilt.

“Did you read it?” he asks, voice steady and resigned despite the fear in his eyes.

It takes a second for my brain to correlate a blade to the neck with the trivial act of reading a journal. The punishment does not fit the crime, and I have to double check that’s what he’s referring to.

“Your journal?” A nervous titter vibrates my throat against the sharp edge.

He doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t, and my apprehension twists into aggravation. He ignores all my questions and has the nerve to hold a knife to me? I raise my chin in defiance, refusing to answer him until he answers me . It’s not like he would actually cut me, anyway. This is just his broken way of responding to fear, because that’s what it is; fear. I calm myself down with the fact that he’s just scared that I read his journal, and that this is the only way he knows how to cope with it.

“Sky,” he says my name like it’s condemned. “Did you read it?”

“Your journal? ” I repeat my question with emphasis, trying not to let his voice break my resolve. His tone is almost pained, with a touch of finality that makes me feel like I’ve already been tried, sentenced, and set for execution. What could he have written that would have him so on edge?

“Please,” he breathes with sudden desperation. “Just tell me.”

I don’t want to give in, not while he’s still holding the knife to a vital artery, but being the cause of anymore agony on his soul saps my determination. There’s something in the little brown book that he thinks will make me see him in a different light. I’m sure of it. But there’s nothing that could skew my opinion of him, and I would never betray his privacy, anyway. I can pick a different hill to die on.

“No,” I say. “I would never,”

I let him stare me down and scan my face, showing him that whatever secrets he wants to keep buried are still unearthed. I swear I see him blink back a well that’s pooled in his eyes as he drops his forehead to mine.

“You promise?” he exhales, lowering the knife.

“I promise.” I sag, relieved even though I know he wouldn’t have hurt me.

I run my hand down his arm, feeling how tense he is, until I reach his wrist and find the hilt of the blade. I have to pry it from his grip, but I know if he really didn’t want me to have it, I wouldn’t be able to take it. I toss it away, into a thicket of bushes, and cup his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, meaning it.

I didn’t think it would bother him that much. I kiss his lips, partly as an apology and partly because I can’t resist. It’s a slow, gentle thing that he leans into, pressing his body against mine. His heart is still pumping rapidly, and he’s coated in a damp sheen that proves just how hard he was running. But for what? He could have an outline to take over the world in that journal and I wouldn’t care, not as long as I still get to be with him.

To taste him.

To marvel at him.

To feel his hand running up my thigh and ripping my stocking.

I gasp as the nylon tears, breaking the serene lull of the stream.

“I don’t want to kill you,” Cade breathes, burying his lips against my neck.

My heart skips a beat. His tone is desperate, lust filled and pleading, but the words… I would hope he doesn’t want to kill me. So why does he sound like he doesn’t have a choice?

“I want you forever,” he continues, kissing down my collarbone. “I want you breathing and whole and alive.” He suddenly cups my butt and lifts me, finding my eyes. “Do you understand? I don’t want to kill you.”

The black pits of his eyes swirl with earnest despair. He’s serious. But I didn’t actually think he would kill me. I know he would never. Does he think he’s capable of that?

“I know.” I reassure him.

“No. I need you to remember.” He holds me against the tree and uses a hand to unbutton my shirt. “I need you to know it, deep down, no matter what.” He moves frantically.

“Cade…” My skin pebbles as he exposes my breasts, stealing my breath. But he needs to know that he’s not evil. That I trust him with my life. That I would let him hold a million knives to my neck and never once truly believe he would hurt me.

“I don’t want to, Sky. I really don’t want to.” He’s breathy and broken, transfixed as he runs a finger around my nipple. “You’ll remember that, right?”

“You won’t,” I manage despite the heat of his touch. “You wouldn’t. You’re good, Cade. You would never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. You might be impulsive, but you always snap out of it. You’re stronger than you think.” I wrap my legs tighter around his waist, feeling how hard he is. “And more caring than you give yourself credit for.”

It’s true. What he’s been through has made him tough, but he still has a tender heart. I know he cares, probably too much. About me, about Bobby, Callie and his mother, too. If the ground was hot coals, he would scorch his own feet to carry me to safety. And he glares at anyone who tries to mess with Bobby. He even takes an aspirin anytime Callie has a headache to make her feel more comfortable with taking medication. His mother is a whole other story, but I see the pain in his eyes when he looks at her. His heart still beats, mangled as it is, it beats.

His finger stills, jaw working as he eyes me. He doesn’t believe me. He’s too angry at the world to see it, but I do and it’s okay. He’ll see with time. As years pass and I put the pieces back together for him. He’ll see.

For now, I tug at his shirt, desperate to let him use me as sanctuary from his own tortured mind. I’ll be anything he needs. That’s how much I believe in him. And if I’m wrong, if I die by his hand… The scary thing is, I don’t think I would regret it.

I think he reads it on my face because I’m suddenly laid on the ground and he’s between my legs. My skirt is around my waist as he undoes his button. The hair that falls over his eyes wakes something primal in me, and I lean up to run my fingers through it. I pull him down to me just as he frees himself, and then wrap my legs around his waist. He’s in me and I cry out, startling a few birds from the trees.

It’s so much more than the way he fills me. It’s him. The way he shudders, the way his muscles tighten. The demon in him becomes unleashed for my body, and it’s intoxicating. Enthralling and spellbinding. I’m not Sky Lyons when he fucks me. I’m an untamed seductress, needy and subservient to hell’s flames. I burn, a fever only broken by his elixir pumping inside of me, his release an antipyretic.

If he doesn’t cum, I die.

I work my hips, letting him into the depths of me. The growl that works up his chest is fuel on the fire, and the contact of him against my clit has me fisting the soil. He’s slick with me as he slips in and out, every pump against my swollen bud causing more dirt to accumulate under my fingernails.

“My angel,” he pants, pressing his lips to my neck and sucking. “You would die for me, wouldn’t you?”

I nod against the mixture of revelry and regret in his tone. But whatever he chooses, it’s true that I’m at the whim of his impulsion, and I arch into him, showing him my servitude. He may think I’m an angel, but I’m an extension of him. Are we vengeance or mercy? Saints or sinners? He decides. I just stand at his side.

“I’ll die with you, Sky,” he presses his forehead to mine as he picks up pace. “We’ll go together,” he promises.

Together. Together. I grind against him, lost in images of being tangled in blissful oblivion for eternity. I’m close to coming undone as he puts his mouth on my breast. Warm swirls set my nerve endings to high voltage, and I brace for explosion, turning my head and pressing my cheek against the forest floor.

The leather-bound journal lays discarded beside us, pages flapping this way and that. In my ecstasy, I catch crude sketches of cylinders and bolded words of chemicals. I don’t mean to look, but my body is rigid with the strike of orgasm. I’m inundated with detailed electrical wire layouts and cross sections of timer mechanisms. My mind can’t make sense of it. Not as I’m wracked with tremors, pleasure licking through my system.

The breeze stills, calming the fluttering pages as Cade cums deep within me, and breaks my fever. I’m gasping, the delirium lifting, as stark black ink stares at me. Calculated lines illustrate a perfect diagram that is both as confusing as it is chilling.

“I love you,” Cade says, grasping my chin to put his lips on mine.

But when I close my eyes to kiss him back, all I see is the bomb.