Chapter 6
SIX
MAX
Around the bend, partially hidden from the main house behind a line of trees, the guest cottage came into view.
Calling it a guest cottage was actually hilarious—it was bigger than most family homes.
Built in the Cape Cod style to match the much larger main house, my apartment was accessed via an outdoor staircase that led to a separate entrance overlooking the bay, complete with a balcony big enough for a couple of patio chairs.
It was my favorite place; light years away from my old, run-down apartment. As I said, I’d jumped up in the world. Alarmingly so.
The fact that this was my home honestly felt too good to be true. When Gwen had told me about the opening a few days after I woke up at the shelter, I’d thought the chances of landing a job as a personal chef and finding safe lodgings on someone’s estate all in one go were laughable.
Two years in, and it still felt like a dream. I didn’t even care that it wasn’t as private as having my own place. Gwen was the only friend I’d have over, and she was already there every day anyway. As far as dating went, that was the absolute last thing on my mind.
For a lot of reasons.
There was someone special waiting for me when I got home, though. Jeffrey, my orange Maine Coon, perched by the door when I stepped inside.
“Hey there, fluffy boy,” I said, tossing my keys on the side table and closing the door before he could make a break for the outside world. The birds liked to splash in the water right in front of his favorite window, and I knew he dreamed of catching them one day.
He yowled, weaving in and out of my legs as if it would usher me into the kitchen faster. I kicked off my shoes and socks. Ugh, I needed a long, hot shower and some warm slippers.
Tail flicking, he nearly tripped me on the way to his food bowl. “If I fall and hit my head and die, there won’t be anyone to feed you for at least a day,” I said with a huff. “So let’s try and not do that, please.”
He peered up at me, unimpressed.
I’d found him at a shelter a year and a half ago when I was in need of company to come home to every night. The attendant had said he was unusually reserved and aloof for a Maine Coon—they were typically outgoing, playful cats.
But with one look into those knowing, almost human-like eyes, I knew we were meant to be. After some time to settle in, it turned out Jeffrey was playful and outgoing, but only with me. It worked for us just fine.
Mrow!
“Yes, yes, I know,” I said, scooping out his food and setting it down. “There. I’m going to shower. Please leave my breakables alone.”
He ignored me for dinner. Honestly, fair. Maine Coons were massive cats, and Jeffrey was on the bigger side. He’d eat me out of house and home if I let him.
I flicked on the lamp in my living room and turned on the television, flipping to a rerun of Barefoot Contessa for the cozy ambience.
My eye caught a fishing boat passing by outside, its gentle wake lapping against the shore.
Stepping out onto the small balcony, I took in the peaceful night falling around me.
Blue hour was my favorite time of summer, when the bats came out and insects hummed their good nights. The town of Plover Bay sprawled along a relatively calm and shallow inlet of Lake Superior, also named, you guessed it, Plover Bay.
There were houses dotted along the shoreline across the bay as well, and sometimes I sat out there, well into the night, watching the glow from their windows wink out one by one as people went to bed.
I liked to imagine their lives. A few of the houses were lit up year-round; clearly, families who enjoyed the splendor of Superior in all of her seasons. Some only came alive a few weeks out of the year.
The one directly across from Mr. Marino’s estate, though, intrigued me. The house itself boasted gorgeous mid-century modern construction, with windows lining nearly every room that faced the bay.
They were never lit, though, except for one. Some nights, one single room on the far end of the house would glow warm and comforting. Occasionally, a silhouette would stand at the window, peering out at the dark water just like I was doing now.
It seemed so lonely, and yet, I felt a kinship to whoever they were. Sometimes I waited until that golden light went out before I’d go to bed, just to keep it company a little while longer.
Or maybe it was keeping me company.
I shook my head. The house was dark now, and there was no point in dwelling on the meaning of silly things like glowing lights across a lake. High school English had thoroughly beaten that dead horse for me.
Once in my room, I peeled off the rest of my clothes, not bothering to toss them in the hamper. Stepping into the attached bathroom, I cranked the tap to medium rare, still pink in the middle, and melted into the scorching, steamy shower.
Bliss.
I sighed, content in the safety of the little home I’d made for myself, complete with hot water and a door that locked, and reflected on my life.
Everything had changed after that night.
Not subtly, but all at once. As if a higher power bore witness to what I’d gone through and decided it was enough difficulty for one lifetime, my circumstances improved so drastically I sometimes woke up in a cold sweat, fearing I’d dreamt it all.
I went from lying in a lumpy bed covered in scratchy sheets, petrified of returning to my job or apartment in case the person who I thought was my friend—I refused to say his name—was there, to moving in to a fucking lake house where my biggest worry was whether or not the chicken was cooked in time for dinner. It was ludicrous.
Some things lingered in the margins, though; relics of an old life that shaped me for a future that was no longer mine to suffer.
I still locked every door I could. Now, though, I had my very own functioning deadbolt.
Looking over my shoulder became a vestigial habit, uselessly searching for that dark silhouette in every shadow. Whether it was in fear or longing depended on the day.
Sometimes the hour.
And I dreamt of him, the Masked Man, almost every night.
He’d appear right when the inky fingers of my memories twisted dreams into nightmares.
Sometimes, it was to slay the monsters that grew too large for me to fight on my own.
Other times, he’d flash his knife at me; a threat of what he was capable of.
I’d wake in a cold sweat, and for a few seconds I’d imagine he stood next to my bed in the dark.
He was never actually there.
But even though I had a door that locked, and something other than wishful dreams to call my own, I was still all alone, and so, so empty.
It was in those quiet, lonely moments that the yawning awareness of missing something made itself most known.
Those alphas may have been stopped before they could touch me, but I’d still lost a piece of myself that night; something I hadn’t shared with anyone yet, something I’d wanted to be special, and was now gone forever.
They’d forced a horrific, stimulant-fueled heat upon me for their own fucked up entertainment, and in the process stole it from me entirely.
Their faces flashed through my mind. I pictured the water running through my fingers and down the drain turned red and thick with blood.
Gwen had suggested therapy, but I was scared to go. Even if I were honest—which was a big if—they’d probably expect me to weep and moan about how difficult it was to live with the trauma of seeing people killed right in front of me.
But what if I told them the memory of the alpha who’d drugged me lying in a puddle of his own blood was sometimes the only thing that got me to sleep at night? That I imagined having the strength to do it myself? The choice to do it myself?
What if I told them I had dreams of running into the one who’d escaped on a crowded street and pushing him into traffic? What if I said I wanted to know what he’d look like, utterly terrorized, with no one coming to save him?
What would they say to that?
Oof. Even if I didn’t voice all of that, therapy was probably a good idea.
Just as I rinsed the conditioner from my hair, Jeffrey yowled so loudly from the other room that I heard him over the running water. Only this time it wasn’t a plea for food; it sounded… angry?
I’d never heard him make that noise before.
Quickly, I shut off the shower so I could hear better.
Hiss!
My breath caught. Could he have knocked something over and hurt himself? Maybe something heavy fell on him? Was he stuck?
Panicked, I yanked the shower curtain back just in time to see him dart past the bathroom door and shimmy under the bed.
My sigh of relief was cut short by my racing heart. Jeffrey wasn’t hurt. Okay, good. Phew.
But what the fuck had upset him?
Silence stretched through the apartment, only interrupted by the pounding in my ears. Had I locked the front door? Surely. I always did—it was a habit. A nightly triumph. A badge of fucking honor that I could.
Slowly, quietly, I pulled the towel off the rack and haphazardly dried my hair and face before wrapping it around my waist. Stepping out of the tub, I tiptoed to the open doorway, grabbing my glasses off the vanity as I went, and peered into my bedroom.
Nothing.
Turning, I padded down the carpeted hall and rounded the corner into the living room.
Something’s wrong.
My skin prickled. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end.
The balcony door—which had absolutely been closed before I got in the shower—was flung wide open. The soft, sheer curtains floated and danced in a light breeze.
Paralyzed by fear, I stood there, frozen, with my breath caught in my chest. It was almost like I’d expected this moment to come, dreading the interruption of my peaceful life and yet knowing it was inevitable.
I knew it was too good to be true. Had the demon lurking in the dark finally caught up to me?
A shadow moved across my living room floor. Before I could even scream, a leather-covered hand shot out from behind me and clapped over my mouth. A second strong arm wrapped around my middle and yanked me backwards until I collided with a warm chest.
“Don’t scream, sweetheart. I’m not here to hurt you.”