Chapter 17 Wren
Wren
THE SONGBIRD
It’s raining so loud outside. The kind that hits the windows like little pebbles being thrown real hard. Boom. Boom. Boom. The thunder makes the whole house shake, like a monster stomping through the sky.
I hold Mr. Teddy Bear close. His ear is all ripped up but he still smells like mommy’s soap.
I like that. It makes me feel more…safe.
Lightning flashes and lights up my room for a second, like when Mommy opens the fridge late at night, then it goes dark again.
I don’t like the dark. I don’t like the things Daddy does to me when it’s dark.
I hear the floor make that creak sound. Just once. I hold my breath, hoping Daddy is just going to bed and not coming to see me again. My tummy starts hurting. Not like when I eat too fast. This is different. Like my tummy is scared too.
The door opens, but I don’t look. I know it’s him.
I squeeze Mr. Teddy Bear harder and try to make Daddy go away in my brain again. Maybe Daddy will get scared of the dark too, and he’ll leave me alone for once.
He liked the rain. He told me that once. He said Mommy couldn’t hear anything when it stormed. He said thunder made it easier. I didn’t know what that meant. But I think it meant I could cry and scream, and nobody would come.
Go away, go away, go away…
Can anyone hear me?
Please. Please. Please—
Ijolt upright, choking on air. My throat burns like something has its hand around my throat squeezing the life out of me, and my stomach lurches.
I barely make it to the bathroom before I drop to my knees and vomit into the toilet, violent and raw like my body was purging the past, one memory at a time.
The tile is cold under my palms, my hair stuck to my face. I spit, cough, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. My eyes are wet, but I don’t cry. I don’t even breathe right. I’m still there. Still six. Still gagging on the smell of beer and old man sweat.
I press my forehead to the rim of the tub, the cool porcelain a poor substitute for peace.
My nightmares never truly stop, but this is the first time in a long while they’ve come this often.
One after another, relentless and clinging, the way nicotine seeps into your clothes and skin no matter how many times you wash them clean.
I count my breaths. In. Out. In. Out. It doesn’t help much. The air still feels thick, like I’m trying to breathe through crushed windpipes.
I open my eyes and stare at the tiny cracked tile beneath me. A small spider moves along the grout, undisturbed by my sickly presence. I envy that kind of calm. That kind of small, predictable life.
The silence presses in, dense and unkind, forcing me to relive the nightmare over and over.
I should get up. I should shower, change, maybe try to eat something.
But my body doesn’t care about logic right now.
It wants stillness. It wants to disappear, similar to how I wanted to disappear that night.
The mirror above the sink dares me to look, but I don’t. Instead, I reach up for the faucet and turn it on, splashing cold water on my face, desperately trying to wash the memories away. It doesn’t help.
Nothing fucking helps.
By the time I drag myself up to my feet, I’m shaking. My knees buckle, and I grip the counter, practically trying to hold onto reality itself. That dream, it wasn’t just any old nightmare. It was him. Edward. My father. Every twisted inch of him, alive in the darkest recesses of my brain.
God, I thought I buried this. I thought it was finally fucking over.
I stare at my reflection. Pale, slick with sweat, hollow eyes rimmed in red. There's a smear of dried mascara on my cheekbone, but that’s not what draws my attention. It’s the bruise. Ugly and dark, spreading like ink beneath my skin.
I lift trembling fingers to it, brushing it lightly and wince at the pain. It’s already blossomed—angry, tender, and impossible to hide.
Richard. That son of a bitch.
It all slams into me at once. His voice, shouting. His hand, flying. That sharp crack of contact. The humiliation of falling in front of all those people. The way I tried to act as if none of it mattered, like I wasn’t fucking dying on the inside.
But the truth is, I was, and it still kind of feels like I am.
My stomach twists again. Not from the nausea this time, but from something deeper. Shame, rage, and disgust that I was ever with a man that did the shit he did. That I sunk so fucking low. I should have seen all the signs before it got to this point.
Wait a minute. How the fuck did I get here?
Bits and pieces of the night before flash through my head like film reels. Kage’s arms around me. Lennox’s lips at my ear. The office. The tension. The fire. Their hands on me. On each other.
The sound I made when Kage dropped to his knees.
God, that heat. That need. The memory hits so hard I forget to breathe.
My thighs press together on instinct, aching in the aftermath.
I close my eyes and let the flashes come over me.
I remember Lennox’s eyes on us, stroking his cock like watching us was the only thing that could ever bring him pleasure.
The way they looked at me, like I was something sacred and sinful all at once.
The way they looked at each other. The way Kage gently washed my hair after I saw his little surprise for me, careful not to push me too far.
I wanted him. I wanted him so fucking bad. Those beads embedded into his skin, I could almost feel the way they would rub all the right places inside me.
My cheeks flush, not just from embarrassment, but from wanting them again. Craving them. I’ve never felt more exposed and vulnerable.
I’ve never felt more alive.
Will I see them again? Do they regret it? Do I?
Before I can spiral too deep, my phone buzzes once and then again just a few seconds later. A shrill, obnoxious vibration against the vanity. I freeze, because my gut tells me exactly who it is before I even look at it. Somehow, I can sense it.
I drag myself towards the bedroom, carefully grab the phone up off the nightstand like it’s a bomb I forgot to disarm, and glance at the screen.
Richard. Of fucking course.
16 missed calls. 23 texts.
The latest one lights up the screen as I stare.
Rich: Are you serious right now? You’re really gonna ignore me? After everything I do for you?
The fury builds so fast, it steals my breath. It would be funny if it wasn’t so goddamn predictable. Everything I do for you. Was punching me in the face was some romantic gesture for him?
I scroll.
Rich: We need to talk.
Rich: You’re being immature.
Rich: You were acting like a whore last night. I saved you from yourself.
Rich: Call me back or I’ll come find you.
There it is. The threat. Always subtle, always dressed in a tone that could pass for concern if you weren’t paying attention. Well I’m paying attention now. I’ve had to pay attention my whole goddamn life, and I know exactly what that means.
I grip the phone tight. So tight, I hear it creak in my palm.
The anger flares hotter than the shame now, burning away the chill of the nightmare.
I want to block him. God, do I want to. But I don’t.
Because I know what he does when he’s ignored.
I know how fast “I’m worried” turns into “You made me do this.”
Some sick part of me still thinks if I just play nice, maybe this won’t escalate. Maybe he’ll lose interest, crawl back into whatever hole he came from. Maybe I can breathe for one fucking day. But I know better.
I drop the phone that’s practically burning in my hand and take a step back. My pulse hammers behind my eyes. I feel like I’m floating just a few inches outside my body, watching it all fall apart again in slow motion.
I can’t stay here. Can’t sit still and let this poison fester.
I rip open a drawer, grab a sports bra, leggings, and an old hoodie. I need movement, sweat, and the wind to rip this rot out of my lungs. Because if I sit with it too long…I’ll let him win.
And I don’t fucking lose anymore.
The car ride is a blur. I don’t remember walking through the back of the restaurant and avoiding Chen. Don’t remember starting the engine and pulling out onto the busy street. Just white noise and the crunch of gravel as I pull into the small parking lot by the trailhead.
This place usually calms me. Tall pines, packed dirt, birds chirping in the distance.
There’s not a lot of places like this in the city, but the drive is usually worth it.
A quiet run through the woods always brings me peace, but today it just feels like a setup.
Why does it feel like the trees are holding their breath waiting to see what I’ll do next?
The unease is sickening, but I try my best to ignore it.
I came here to relax, not make everything worse.
I slam the door harder than I mean to and pull my hoodie on, tucking my hands into the sleeves like some sort of security blanket. I put my headphones on, volume up with the bass pounding. I don’t pick a playlist. Just hit shuffle and start to move. One foot in front of the other, as fast as I can.
The first mile’s nothing. My body knows this part.
Sweat loosens the tension in my shoulders, my lungs start to cooperate again, and for a second, I pretend I’m normal.
Maybe this will make me feel like I didn't just wake up choking on ghosts and bile. As if I’m not being hunted by a man who thinks love means possession.
But it doesn’t last. That feeling creeps in again, the prickle right at the base of my neck. I’m being watched. I can sense it.
I slow down, pull my headphone off one ear, and glance over my shoulder. Nothing but trees, trail, and sunlight filtering through the canopy. A couple of joggers pass in the other direction, totally oblivious. No one looks out of place.
Get a grip, Wren. It’s just your nerves.
I stretch at the edge of the trail, pretending I’m not scanning every shadow like it’s about to lunge out at me.
My heart’s already picking up speed again, and it’s not from the run.
Pulling the headphone back onto my ear, I turn the music up louder and start again.
Faster. Harder. But the buzz of my phone in my pocket breaks the rhythm.
I ignore it.
It buzzes again.
And again. Persistent.
My gut twists. I stop running, rip the headphones off my head, and pull the phone from my pocket. The screen lights up with his name. Rich. Of course it’s him. It’s always fucking him. Because he doesn’t let go. He never does.
I continue staring at the screen.
RICH CALLING
My thumb hovers over Decline, but I freeze. He’ll just call again, and again, and again, the way he always fucking does. I don’t answer. I can’t. My other hand grips the hem of my hoodie, twisting it hard in my fist as if I can wring the anxiety out that way.
I shove the phone back into my pocket, pull my headphones back on, and bolt. This time, faster than before. I need the noise, the burn in the calves from pushing myself. I need to outrun the dread curling tight in my chest.
The music isn’t helping, not anymore. My skin itches, my breath coming too fast, but it’s not from the exertion.
It’s from fear. My eyes flick towards every shadow now.
That feeling, the prickle, it’s not just a feeling anymore.
It’s instinct. Danger. I keep telling myself I’m paranoid, but then something moves in my peripheral.
I stop dead in my tracks, rip the headphones off, my pulse hammering in my ears louder than the music was. I spin, eyes scanning the trees, the path behind me, the little clearing just up ahead. There’s people out here, somewhere. I just can’t see them. Can’t hear them.
A hand grabs my arm, hard.
“Fuck!” I shriek, instinct taking over. I jerk away, heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to escape through the bones, but the grip tightens.
“God, Wren! Do you know how worried I’ve been?”
I twist around—Richard.
He looks like he thinks he’s the victim in this scene.
Eyes wide with wounded concern, lips twisted into some mockery of relief.
His face is completely beaten and swollen, painted in shades of purple and yellow.
He doesn’t even look like himself anymore.
My stomach turns at the sight. I try to pull away again, but he yanks me closer, fingers digging into the soft part of my arm.
“I had to come find you. You’ve been ignoring me!”
“No shit,” I spit, trying to wrench myself free. “Let me go, Rich.”
He shakes his head, and his expression darkens, all that fake concern bleeding into something else. Something more sinister.
“You’ve always been so fucking stubborn, Wren.”
That tone. That look. It’s him. Different face, different voice, but the same sickness behind the eyes. It throws me straight back into the nightmare. Not the one I woke from but the one I never escaped.