23. Twenty-Three
Twenty-Three
Sara
My hands are in his hair, and I pull him closer and closer, until an unfamiliar ache takes over my chest as his fingers barely touch me where I just need him to make me unravel.
I want him to take it all—my fear, my sadness, my anger. I want to lose myself in him, to be reduced to the sensation of what it’s like to find peace in someone like Liam. But just as I forget the rest of the world exists, he goes rigid. He pulls away, chest heaving, eyes fixed on the window.
My skin goes cold when I compute that someone is in front of my house, watching me again. The heat of the moment turns into anger; I feel so violated, but a foreign feeling comes over me, knowing that he’s here to protect me. I had never had that before.
I’m not alone, but I don’t want to get used to whatever this feeling is.
Liam’s hand clamps around my waist, yanking me behind him as he stalks to the window, and there’s a shadow, a flicker of movement, with the unmistakable glint of eyes in the darkness.
My heart officially drops. It’s one thing to assume someone is there, but to actually see glacial eyes staring back at you is entirely terrifying.
“Fuck. Stay here, Sara.”
Liam opens the door, silent as a cat, and slips out. I can hear his footsteps, purposeful, fading as he circles the house. My chest tries to break out of my ribs while I wait, counting every breath, every beat.
At first, I strongly believed Liam was playfully stalking me, and let’s be honest, no one should ever permit stalking, but a small part of me felt relieved thinking it was Liam but now, I’m genuinely scared.
It has progressively gotten worse, and being at home alone more and more hasn’t made it easier.
I’ve lost hours of sleep the past few months, waking up at any little sound.
It’s as if I’m growing weary of sleeping vulnerably, and that’s not healthy.
Liam finally returns minutes later, eyes wild. He says nothing and locks the door.
“Did you see who it—?”
He shakes his head. “No, whoever it was, is gone.”
I swallow hard. “Who do you think—?”
He cuts me off. “I don’t know. He wouldn’t be breathing if I knew.”
He turns around, walking over to me, the muscles under his white T-shirt rigid. I can see the angst and his outrage underneath him, and he’s breathtaking.
My breath halts until he’s towering over me, his thumb caressing my cheek. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. Is your mom coming home tonight?”
“N-no, I don’t think so, why?” I ask nervously.
“Let’s get some rest.”
Liam steps around me, checking all the doors of the house and turning off the lights. He’s in work mode, protector mode, and his presence is commanding as he glides toward the staircase. I follow him, my heartbeat echoing in my ears, still reeling from how much I wanted him.
I hesitate, trailing behind. I can’t help but notice how the dim light catches the edge of his defined jawline, the way his muscles flex beneath the fabric of his shirt with every step.
He reaches the second floor and pauses, glancing back at me, and there’s a flicker of something—possessiveness?
Concern? It’s strange how easily I follow him as if he’s always been the one to guide me through this house, my house.
There’s no point in asking him how he knows where the bedrooms are, as he pushes open the door to mine.
He steps inside, surveying the room with an intensity that makes me feel both safe and exposed.
Thank God I hid my stuffed unicorn. Six years apart is not that much, but some things are unforgivable.
I pause in the doorway, my heart racing as I observe him standing tall and impressive, thinking to myself that no one should look this edible.
“Are you going to stay in the guest bedroom?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper as I shuffle toward my bed, fatigue weighing down my limbs.
“No, I’m going to sleep with you here.” His tone is firm, leaving no room for argument.
“O-oh.” I slide beneath the soft covers, the cool fabric contrasting with the heat radiating from my skin. Things may have just gotten heated, but I’m still processing.
Liam stands by the edge of the bed, his gaze locked on mine, and he pulls his shirt over his head.
I stop breathing at the raw masculinity that he is revealing a sculpted chest with intricate tattoos that twist and curl like vines across his skin down to his arms. His broad shoulders, defined abs, and I might die right now.
CPR requested immediately.
“Um, I can find some of my brother's old pants that will fit.” I suggest, trying to distract myself from the way my pulse quickens.
But he simply shakes his head, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips as he lowers his pants to his boxers, his movements fluid and confident.
Without a word, he slips under the covers beside me, the warmth of his body enveloping me as he pulls me into his chest, his skin against mine burns my flesh, and I can’t decide if I want to run or stay here forever. I don’t understand what this man is doing to me…
“Sleep,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that wraps around me like a cocoon.
I nestle against him. It seems ridiculously impossible to sleep next to him when my senses are all over the place, but I find a string of calmness, of tranquility as I feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my cheek, and for the first time in weeks, I let myself relax, surrendering to the comfort of his presence.
I don’t remember, but I’m pretty certain that he didn’t let go of me for the rest of the night.
The pounding and kicking on the door are relentless.
It’s locked and no one can come inside. I press my hands over my ears, clamp my eyes shut, forcing myself to believe I’m safe.
But she won’t stop despite me imploring her to.
She rarely does. Some days she forgets who I am and unleashes her pain on me.
I pray for someone to stop her, but I’m alone. I’m always alone.
She flickers the bathroom light like a madwoman, trying to drag me out of the tub, but I can’t move. Her screams paralyze me even if the warm water soothes.
“I’m safe,” I whisper, and slowly my muscles unclench despite her assault, leaving me in a pitch-black bathroom.
That locked door, separating me from her drunken delirium, is a flimsy shield but my only refuge.
Some days are worse than others, and she never remembers, as much as grief is collapsing her, she finds shelter in numbing herself with alcohol.
I have no outlet, no place to call home in these instances of darkness and undiluted pain, but I know she lost her child.
I know she can’t breathe at night and I know she wishes it never happened. But I feel replaceable.
I sink deeper, exhaling bubbles in the enveloping warm water as her screams grow distant, echoing just so slightly.
“I’m safe,” I murmur again. The light flickers repeatedly, and I shut my eyes, breathing, trying to go to a different place — the flash burns into headlights, glass, and a tree trunk splitting his car.
My brother’s car.
It’s wrecked, everything is wrecked, and he’s gone.
The images stitch back to screams of my mother collapsing in the kitchen against the fridge, phone in hand, with the news no mother should ever have to face.
“We’re sorry, your son has passed away.”
Watching her, I know, our lives will never, ever be the same.
I jolt upright, water spilling over the porcelain, lungs clawing for air, and I pull at my hair, burying my head in my lap. Stop, please stop.
“It should’ve been YOU in the car that night!” Mom screams.
Her words incinerate me, my chest caves in, the pain of knowing she would’ve picked him.
I would’ve picked myself too to die in that car that night.
And I see the blade glinting back at me.
With no other way to let go of the pain calling to be released, that’s when I trace the first soothing escape onto my skin.
Another scream echoes, breaking me apart, and I gasp loudly, snapping me…
Out of my sleep — catching my breath I realize I was just sleeping, and these memories have turned into nightmares.
I scan the room around me, the other side of the bed is empty. The hollow where Liam slept looks cold already, and the dull ache that slides between my ribs is another feeling I don’t want to name.
The door swings open. Liam stands there, panic written across his face, “What happened?”
Before I can answer, he’s at my side, his hand pressed to the back of my neck, scanning the room for danger. He pulls me close, forehead to forehead, jaw clenched.
“I’m okay, Liam. I—I had a nightmare.” His thumb brushes away a tear I didn’t realize was there.
“Why are you having nightmares?” He looks at me, analyzing me. I act as if it doesn’t matter, forcing a laugh.
“Why is the sky blue?”
He lets out a little chuckle and my heart flutters at the man, sitting on the edge of my bed, in my bedroom, his hand trailing down to my waist, his blue eyes infiltrating me, shirtless may I add, his tattoos covering arms and chest and… I hate my life.
“Are you alright?” he asks, kissing the side of my head.
I nod, slipping out of the bed as he gets up and heads for the door, he turns and looks over his shoulder. “I made breakfast. Come downstairs, we need to talk.”
My mouth turns dry. When someone tells you they need to talk…It never feels too reassuring.
“Okay…”
I realize he’s wearing my brother’s gray sweatpants, and my heart pinches.
“You found my brother’s clothes?” I ask, I can feel my eyes water, but I swallow the emotion as soon as it surfaces.
“I did. That’s okay?” His expression tenses with pain.
“Yes, if anything, I… I’m happy that you’re wearing them.” I say hesitantly. He nods and heads downstairs.
By the time I make it to the kitchen, he’s put on a shirt.
If there’s a deeper well of grief left in me, this is it—the cruel comfort of seeing him there, fully dressed. Cruel, cruel.
The sight feels too normal, like stepping into a life that I didn't know could exist, and also, surprised he’s capable of making eggs and coffee.
“You didn’t have to do this.” My voice sounds small, foreign, waving at the breakfast set on the dining table.
Liam shrugs, flipping a piece of toast onto a plate. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured food was safer than thinking. Your mom also mentioned you don’t know how to cook. I wanted to spare us both the torture.”
I manage a smile and sit. “Of course she said that. Thank you.” I bite my lip and hesitate. “So, what did you want to talk to me about?”
He watches me for a moment, then says carefully, “I’ve been thinking this through.”
“About?” I ask tentatively. Nervous where this is going, taking a bite of my food, praying I don’t choke on disappointment, I don’t even know what I’m asking for.
“This is not working,” he blurts out, chewing on his food as his jaw tightens through each bite, and I can’t think or look anywhere at the sight of him.
“Okay?” And I instantly want to throw up. I shouldn’t even have this feeling of let down stewing in me, my gaze falls on my fidgeting hands, and I shove them under my thighs.
Of course, this isn’t working.
“You should come live with me. For the time being.”
My eyes snap up at that. I nearly choke on the next bite, coughing into my napkin. “What?”
He doesn’t flinch. “Your safety has become... a distraction. I check your house instead of watching for my own enemies. Inefficient. Dangerous, and Fiasco would be happy to have you around.”
I blink at him. “I don’t think you’d be happy to have me around.”
“Yes, Sara, I recognize the irony. Just a few months ago, I wouldn’t have crossed the street to prevent you from getting hit by a car.”
“Ouch, that’s a little excessive,” I say.
“Yeah, maybe a little.” He chuckles. “But now I'm losing sleep over your safety and your security measures suck. My house has all the security cameras we need.”
I can’t do anything but stare at him, searching for words that I don’t have.
“So, you’ve got two options: keep playing with your life or move in with me.” His tone is calm, but underneath it hums with the energy of a man who won’t take no for an answer.
“Because moving in with you isn’t playing with my life?” I let out a disbelieving laugh, “and what about my mom?”
He hesitates, taking a gulp of his coffee and setting the cup down. How can such simple actions make someone so intimately beautiful and…
“She can stay in Paris. Or I can hire someone to keep an eye on her when she’s home. I just—” He stops himself, then meets my eyes. “I can’t protect you the way I need to if you’re here.”
Protect.
I look down at my plate, my appetite gone. “You know how that sounds, right?”
“Yes.” He pushes his hair back, the edge of a tired smile breaking through. “Like I’m overstepping. Like I’m trying to control you, and we both know that I’m not a good man, but I’m good enough to keep you alive.”
“When would you want me t—”
“Today.”
I hate the way my chest tightens at that. I hate it sounds both irresistible and irresponsible, the danger that feels like safety only because it’s him.
I stare at him, speechless. The silence stretching between us. He breaks it first.
“Think about it,” he says, clearing the plates, and I see him hesitate as he softly adds, “you’d make the place less unbearable.”
He turns toward the sink, and I stare at his back, wondering when my life became a series of impossible choices between what terrifies me and what I can’t stay away from.
When my mom eventually comes home, she understands where Liam is coming from. They both agree that having a stalker lately is growing more and more concerning.
I’d also be lying if I wasn’t in a tortured mind space, it has been weighing heavily, the fear of being watched and not knowing what they want from me.
And a little space between my mom and me would be good.
It also helps that she met a man in Paris and doesn’t mind spending time with him.
When I remind her of the times she had forbidden me to see Joe, she says the circumstances are different now.
Somehow, I have this feeling that whoever has it out for me has something to do with Joe, and either she doesn’t compute that little detail or she just ignores it.
With that, I guess I’m moving from one cuckoo’s nest to another.
I shouldn’t be in charge of making decisions.