Chapter Fourteen
Amelia
I sit in the passenger seat, hands resting over my too-full stomach, eyes heavy with the kind of sleep that creeps in after warmth, sugar, and laughter. That was the best date of my life. Not that I have anything to compare it to. Still, I don’t think anything could beat this.
The car slows to a stop. I reach for the handle, but a soft tsk pulls my hand back. Before I can blink, he’s already out. He opens my door, his hand extended. My monster is a gentleman in the light, but we both know we live in nothing but darkness. I take his hand.
I step out, wobbling slightly. His hand catches my waist.
“Careful,” he says.
We walk side by side. I don’t even bother pretending I think he’s leaving after this. He hasn’t missed a single night since I arrived. Not one.
Inside the restaurant, it’s quiet. Just us and the hum of the refrigerator compressors. I walk toward the back, and he follows. I kick off my heels, sighing in relief, and stretch my arms toward the ceiling.
“Full?” he asks behind me.
“Stuffed,” I say with a small laugh, turning to face him. “You didn’t need to order dessert too. You’re trying to kill me.”
He shrugs. “I like to spoil you.”
My chest warms. What is wrong with me? This man confessed to having been a hitman, a person who killed and earned money from it at some point. Yet, here I am, absolutely swooning over his every word.
I lower myself to the edge of the bed and start pulling my hair out of its braid. He watches, just like a predator caught mid-hunt but fascinated by the stillness.
“You can’t sleep here forever,” he grumbles.
“It’s not forever,” I say, combing my fingers through tangled strands. “Just until I figure things out.”
“Or until I give you something better.”
“What does that mean?”
He doesn’t answer, and I choose to move on from the subject.
“You’re always here,” I whisper. “Do you ever go home?”
He pushes off the doorframe slowly and crosses the room. Closer. Closer still.
“This is home,” he says. “Wherever you are.”
My pulse stumbles. “That’s—” I start, but the words evaporate. Too much. Too fast. Too dark. And I’m starting to hate how precious that makes me feel.
Silence stretches between us, but it’s not empty. It’s loaded with everything we’re not saying; things I’m not ready to admit.
I hear him move. Just one step back. A mercy.
“Sleep,” he says. “I’ll be here.”
He always is. Even when I don’t see him, or when I wish I didn’t feel safer because of it.
I lie down, facing the wall, and he doesn’t say goodnight. The lights go off with a click, and the shadows crawl in. Stillness. Quiet. Him. And something inside me splinters open at the realization that I stopped being afraid of the dark the moment he stepped into it. But even in this darkness, I feel that he is watching me. I’ve become attuned to him.
“You’re staring,” I accuse, eyes closed.
“I can’t help it. I’m always thinking,” he confesses. “About you.”
I snort. “That’s not creepy at all.”
He doesn’t laugh, because for him, it’s not meant to be funny…it’s a confession.
“Alright, stalker. What are you thinking now?”
“I’m wondering how you ended up here. Alone. In a back room that smells like damp cardboard and tomatoes.”
I don’t know why I feel comfortable enough to spill my darkest secrets and my biggest sin. Maybe it’s because he opened up to me. I have no idea, but I give in to this urge to expose myself to this man.
“They were going to burn me,” I say softly.
Silence. A beat. Then—
“What?” The word slices the air.
Something in the room shifts, like the pressure has changed. Like the walls are holding their breath.
“They picked me,” I continue. “The cult. My village. Whatever you want to call it. Every five years, they choose a girl. A virgin. A sacrifice to the creature of rot and fire.” I let out a breathless laugh. “They told me I’d be a blessing.”
He still hasn’t spoken.
“I ran that night. Didn’t stop running until I arrived here, and Margaret kindly gave me an opportunity to live.”
Still nothing.
I finally muster the courage to look at him. His jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful. His eyes, black and bottomless, burn with something that makes my stomach drop.
He breathes out hard, pacing a slow circle. “They chose you. Dragged your name through those filthy prayers like they owned you.”
“I don’t belong to them,” I whisper.
“No,” he snarls. “You belong to me.”
I’m starting to get used to him saying I’m his. That I actually belong somewhere—to someone. And that is dangerous.
“I should go there and burn the lies out of their throats. Smash the bones they kneel on,” he growls like a caged beast.
I place a hand on his chest to calm him down. “I don’t want to think about them anymore. I want to leave them in the past, where they belong. I want to live. I want to try the weird food carts on the street, and dance like the girls in the movies do, and sit in a shitty park and let the sun touch my skin.”
His rage is quiet, but it crackles under his skin like a live wire. Yet he looks like he wants to push all of this violence he’s feeling down... for me.
He pulls out his phone and scrolls through it. A song starts to play, slipping into the air like smoke.
“Dance with me.”
“What?”
“You said you want to live. Let’s start here.”
My heart is a drum, and his voice is a match. I take his hand.
His palm is rough, warm. His hand settles against my lower back, the other gripping mine. We move slow, swaying more than dancing, but his body is all heat and tension and hunger pressed against mine.
“You never got this, did you?” he murmurs into my ear.
I shake my head. “No one ever looked at me like I was anything more than a vessel.”
“I’m not them,” he hisses.
The music curls around us, and his lips brush the side of my head.
“I don’t know what this is between us,” I say honestly.
“It’s whatever you want it to be. For now, it’s just this.”
The song loops. I yawn without meaning to. He carries me to the bed, tucking me in like my mother used to. I watch him settle on the hard ground, propping his head against the wall, ready to sleep on the floor like he always does.
“Don’t sleep down there,” I catch myself saying. What am I doing? Am I really inviting my stalker into my bed?
But he isn’t just my stalker, is he? He’s the man who spoils me, who protects me, who makes sure no one disrespects me. How can I stop myself from craving him instead of fearing him, when he shows me more care than anyone else in my life?
I pat the mattress beside me. He hesitates for a second. Just one. Then he almost teleports to the bed with how quickly he jumps in. I bite my lip to stop myself from laughing.
Tonight, I officially invited my monster into my bed. I regret nothing.