CHAPTER TEN
THE HOURS CRAWL. So does the sweat. It moves over my skin like ants.
I lie still for so long I forget how to move, but the second I stir, even slightly, it starts. Again and again and again.
First it’s my skin. It feels too tight, then too loose. Like it’s going to crack, and then like it might slip off my bones in one big wet sheet. Sometimes it’s itchy. Other times it’s on fire.
Then it’s my eyes. Wide open. Can’t blink. Can’t close. The light is dim but every shadow is a threat. The corners breathe. The air moves like a living thing. I swear I see a man standing in the door, but when I focus, there’s nothing there.
My spine starts screaming next. I arch off the bed, teeth clenched, fists locked, and it still doesn’t stop. It’s worse than pain. It’s possession. Like something’s inside my bones, gnawing its way out.
I moan. I scream. I cry. I can’t help it.
Sometimes I feel arms. Strong ones, holding me still. Wrapping around me like steel cables trying to contain a storm. Wyatt.
His voice is a low murmur at my temple. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re okay, sweetie.”
But I’m not okay. Nothing is okay. My body’s a torture rack. My brain’s running in circles and I’m chasing it, barefoot and blindfolded.
I’m burning. Then freezing. I strip off the blanket, then claw it back. My teeth chatter so hard I think they’ll break. My stomach cramps. I gag. I heave.
He gets the bucket in time.
I throw up bile and spit and my own guts. Over and over until there’s nothing left. I cry through it, mouth open, jaw locked. But there’s no emotion in it.
“I want to die,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says. He wipes my mouth. “But you’re not going to.”
He presses cool cloths to my forehead. Brings water. Holds it to my lips like I’m a child.
“You have to drink.”
When I do, it comes back up.
I curl up in the fetal position and sweat through the sheets. I hear a whisper. Ryder?
I bolt upright. “Where is he?” My voice is cracked glass. “Where is he?”
“Max, no one’s here. It’s just me.”
I scream.
Wyatt is sliding his hands underneath me, picking me up to take me to the shower. My hair’s plastered to my face. I think my lips are bleeding.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
“You can.”
The hallway spins around us. I flinch at every sound—an engine revving outside, a door creaking, faraway laughter.
He takes me to the shared second-floor washroom and sets me down on the closed toilet lid and turns the shower on.
Then he crouches in front of me. “Can you stand?” he asks.
I nod, but when I try I stumble into his arms.
He helps me undress, keeping his eyes on my shoulder. His hands are detached and clinical. He carries me into the shower, fully clothed himself, sleeves rolled up.
The water hits me like a punch. I gasp.
He holds me upright, one arm under mine, the other lathering soap through my hair with slow, steady circles. I sob once, sharp and sudden. He doesn’t say a word.
Later, I’m shaking again. Worse this time. My jaw locks, my muscles twitch. He sits on the floor beside me and takes my hand. His palm is warm. His thumb strokes slow lines against my skin.
I close my eyes, praying for escape, but my body won’t let me. My thoughts loop and get nowhere, like a buffering video. I’m not sure what I say out loud anymore, and what are just thoughts.
“Shh,” Wyatt murmurs, hand brushing down my arm. “Just rest.”
“I saw him,” I whisper. “He was bleeding.”
“It’s okay,” he says distantly. “It’s okay.”
The humming of the fan on the dresser is constant, day and night.
At some point, he stands and starts pushing the bed. I blink at him, confused.
“What are you doing?” My voice is hoarse.
“There’s a draft near the window,” he says. “This part of the room’s warmer.”
The bed blocks the closet door and a corner of the entrance. It doesn’t make any sense and it’s not any warmer.
I drift, but never into sleep, just darkness. Sometimes I hear someone coming. Boots. Breathing. The sound of Silas licking his teeth.
“He’s in the walls,” I breathe, terrified.
Wyatt adjusts the fan, turning the dial a little higher.
“You’re safe,” he says quietly.
I try to believe him.
I see him sitting up in the middle of the night, when he should be sleeping, long legs out, head leaned against the wall, eyes closed but awake. He looks like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. I’d do anything to comfort him but I’m paralyzed in bed, nausea rolling through me.
I close my eyes again and let myself drift, and for once, it’s quiet.
I can’t tell the difference between my dreams and hallucinations.
The air is heavy with golden light, and I see Ryder standing in the middle of a field, shirtless and barefoot, blood-soaked from the waist down. His eyes are dark and impassive.
I try to call his name but nothing comes out.
He lifts a hand like a wave stuck halfway.
I step forward and the field stretches. The space between us warps. No matter how far I walk, he doesn’t get closer.
His chest rises and falls, slow and steady.
He’s alive.
He’s dead.
He’s waiting.
Behind him, the sky flickers red.
I scream—
And wake up choking on air.
I ask for water and Wyatt is there, glass at my lips, hand steady at the back of my neck.
A few sips, and it stays down.
“Good girl,” he says quietly.
Later, I dream about Ryder again. “I’m scared,” I tell him. “You’ll get through this,” he tells me, and I don’t even know if I want that to be true. But night comes again, then daytime, and I’m still alive.
“You’re one of the toughest motherfuckers I know,” Wyatt says, and I manage to hold his gaze in a steely glare. He laughs. “You’re gonna muscle your way through, hon. I know it.”