64. Julian
Julian
While Sage was in the shower getting ready for our drive into town, I stood at the kitchen island putting together lunch.
We’d picked up groceries the day before, and I was quickly learning she was a total health freak.
So, I meticulously spread cream cheese over wholemeal bread, topping it with turkey and thinly sliced cucumber, before cutting the sandwiches into triangles.
Mid-motion, I casually picked up one of the thick cucumber ends I’d just chopped off and popped it into my mouth, chewing idly as I reached for the knife again.
My mind was entirely elsewhere, still heavy with the remnants of the night before.
I had slept with a profound calmness. Waking up with Sage wrapped tightly in my arms felt like a piece of heaven—a grace I was certain I would be denied forever.
Honestly, I still wasn't convinced my head hadn't been blown apart so many times in the past that I was just permanently crazy now—trapped in a hallucination where none of this was real.
"Oh my god, Julian! Don’t use that, what’s wrong with you?!"
Sage’s voice sliced through my intrusive thoughts.
I blinked, looking down. I was halfway through slicing the cucumber, completely confused by her sudden panic.
She let out a breathless, horrified laugh and smacked my arm, looking utterly mortified.
Before I could ask what I’d done wrong, she snatched the remaining cucumber right off the chopping board and hurled it straight into the bin.
I just stood there, knife in hand, tracking its flight. "You didn’t already make them with that one, did you?" she asked, her eyes darting to the neat pile of already made sandwiches sitting next to me on the counter.
I raised an eyebrow, my tone entirely deadpan. "Yeah. Why? Develop an allergy overnight?"
"You know exactly why I can’t eat that!" she shot back, crossing her arms laughing.
I stayed frozen, my mind racing through every personal and medical fact I knew about her, trying to piece together what the hell she was talking about, but I was completely blank. I just stared at her.
"Okay..." I said slowly, setting the knife down and accepting defeat. "We will just grab something on the way I guess."
I kept my left hand draped casually over the steering wheel, my eyes scanning the winding mountain road, but my attention was anchored to the passenger seat.
Sage was curled up beside me, wearing one of my oversized hoodies, her bare legs tucked beneath her.
Under the domestic peace of the morning, a quiet, tense negotiation had been brewing since we woke up.
“I’m just saying, Julian, the online classes would be a band-aid, not a solution,” she sighed, tracing the edge of the centre console with her fingertip. “I’ve worked so hard to get where I am with my education. I don’t want to risk any of my grades just because I’m being overly paranoid.”
I tightened my grip on the leather steering wheel. “It’s not paranoia, Sage. It’s being cautious.”
“I feel a million times better already,” she insisted, turning her head to look at me. The dark shadows under her eyes had faded significantly after a full night’s sleep in my arms. “But I can’t hide out here forever. I need to get back to normal life eventually.”
The word normal felt like a foreign language. She was tethered to an immortal bloodline, hunted by a man who defied every law of nature, and oblivious to it all.
Before I could formulate a counterargument that didn’t involve exposing the terrifying truth, her expression shifted. A slow blush inducing smile spread across her lips.
She unbuckled her seatbelt just enough to lean across the centre console.
“But…” she murmured, her voice dropping into a husky whisper.
Her small hand slid boldly up my thigh, her fingers gripping me right through the denim of my jeans in a move that stopped my breath.
She pressed her lips to the corner of my jaw, her warm breath grazing over my skin.
“After last night… I’m in no rush to leave. ”
I took my eyes off the road for a fraction of a second to look down at her, the memory of her crying out my name was replaying over and over in my mind.
I didn’t want to push her away. I didn’t want to scare her off by coming off as a suffocating, overbearing crazy boyfriend.
But the thought of her walking across an open campus, exposed to the world around her, made the blood pump in my ears.
I didn’t trust Cain. I didn’t trust leaving her alone unsupervised for a single second while this was all unraveling.
But as I looked into her bright, hopeful eyes, a dark, heavy wave of guilt washed over me.
Keeping her locked up and cut off from the art and the life she loved…
it felt way too familiar. It reminded me exactly of the life she never got to enjoy.
The one ripped out of her hands, all those years ago, Cain had turned her existence into a gilded cage, controlling every breath she took until it broke her.
I refused to become the very thing I was trying to protect her from.
I had to let her live, even if it meant tearing myself apart with anxiety to keep the perimeter in check.
“Alright,” I rasped, covering her wandering hand with mine and squeezing gently before I lost control of the vehicle. “We’ll figure something out. I promise.”
She beamed, kissing my cheek before sliding back into her seat and fixing her belt.
We were officially on Halloween duty. It was the weekend, and since she didn’t have any classes, we were driving into a near by town to shop for costumes.
I highly doubted we were going to get a single trick-or-treater all the way out at the remote estate, but Sage had practically vibrated with excitement this morning, declaring it her favourite holiday.
If buying plastic skeletons and ten tons of chocolate and lollies made her smile, I would buy the entire damn store. Even if the night inevitably ended with just the two of us eating it all on the lounge.
I watched her hum along to the radio at peace. Things felt so natural around her. The pieces of my existence had just effortlessly melted into place since the day we met. It was flawless.
It felt too good to be true.
A cold prickle of dread suddenly washed over the back of my neck—the distinct, primitive instinct of a soldier realising the quiet means an ambush is coming. It felt like something catastrophic was waiting right around the corner.
I forced myself to exhale, shaking off the gross, creeping feeling. She is right here, I reminded myself. She is safe. I hit the turn signal, the tires of my vehicle crunching over the asphalt as we pulled into the crowded parking lot of the massive Halloween store.
The automatic sliding doors parted, and we were instantly hit by a wall of chaotic noise. The store was an immediate sensory overload of flashing strobe lights, the loud cackle of animatronic witches, and the distinct, overwhelming smell of cheap latex and synthetic fog.
The aisles were packed. Kids in half-finished costumes were sprinting past us, weaving through the racks, while stressed parents rushed to grab last minute fake blood and pumpkin buckets.
It was the exact kind of unpredictable, crowded environment that usually set my tactical instincts on high alert, but I forced my shoulders to drop.
We wandered through the chaos until we reached the display back wall, covered from floor to ceiling in rubber masks and weapons.
I stopped walking. I could feel the weight of her gaze on the side of my face. I slowly turned my head and found Sage staring up at me, a highly suspicious, wicked smirk playing on her lips.
“Really,” I deadpanned, raising an eyebrow.
She gave an enthusiastic, rapid little nod.
I let out a long, heavy sigh, though I couldn’t hide the amused smile pulling at the corner of my mouth. “Fine. Go pick one out.”
Her eyes lit up. She dropped my hand and darted over to the wall, standing on her tiptoes to sift through the terrifying, blood-splattered options.
She returned after a minute of deliberate observation, a hanger hooked over her finger and a smile that had evolved into something dangerous.
“I found the perfect one,” her voice a low vibration as she held it out to me.
It was the original suit from The Ripper—the film that had redefined horror for a generation, a relic of cinematic slaughter.
“And conveniently,” I breathed, leaning in until the scent of her skin began to cloud my judgment, “one of your favourite movies, if I recall.”
I watched the way her pulse jumped at the base of her throat—a delicious, tell-tale sign that I’d hit the mark. She liked the dark; she always had.
The hood was the first thing to draw her eye. It was made of a black, light-devouring fabric designed to collapse forwards and swallow the identity of whoever dared to wear it.
Half-lost to the shadows, the faint, distorted outline of a skull mask peered back at us. The bone-white surface was dulled to ash, burn marks crept like vines along the cheekbones, warping the structure into something ruined and terrifyingly imperfect.
The dark material of the robe was fitted, designed to follow the lean lines of a man’s body and a pair of leather gloves dangled from the hanger, the palms worn and the fingers curved as if already waiting for a throat to settle into.
I watched her eyes linger there before her gaze dropped to the chain.
It was wrapped loosely at the base, its weight dragging the hanger to one side.
The links were thick, forged from a darkened, unpolished metal.
The Ripper never rushed, The chain was his signature— it wasn’t meant for a fast or clean kill.
He took his time with the struggle. He savoured every second.
The faint blood like stains along the links were supposed to be fake—streaks of dried pigment worked into the metal to mimic a struggle—but under the flickering light, they didn’t look staged.