Chapter 87
I’m significantly worse for the wear this time around as I observe myself in the small bathroom mirror. A bruise is forming under my eye, and every time I think about Rose, a smile threatens to split the wound on my lip.
I wash the visible traces of blood from my skin.
However, my shirt drips a steady stream of crimson from the heavily saturated bottom seam, and I can’t do much about it.
Even when I wring it out in the sink, the drips come rushing back.
This is why my kills were supposed to be clean and swift.
I didn’t want to leave an easily traceable trail back to me. But I couldn’t help myself.
Before I met Rose, a thirst for violence was my driving force.
I demanded loyalty or a fate worse than death would hover over a traitor’s head until judgement day.
Sometimes subjecting a two-faced piece of shit to the daily neurotic urge of looking over their shoulder was punishment enough.
Of course, I made a spectacle of the few bad apples, but that didn’t mean I needed to off the whole bunch.
Fear is what spreads the word. Fear keeps people in line.
And fear prevents the rot from infecting the whole orchard.
Leaving the bathroom, I move back to the scene of violence beneath the windows.
I look over the heap at my feet. There isn’t a hope in hell that I can clean up this fucking mess.
So, instead, I quickly rearrange the game room.
Dragging the couch across the floor, I push it up against the bodies, crunching their mutilated carcasses between the wall and the back of the couch.
It’s an effective move at hiding my crime, but eventually they’ll start to smell and someone will notice.
With any luck, I’ll be far away before that happens.
There’s nothing left to do now but find Rose.
I move with renewed energy across the room, leaving a slow trail of crimson circles along the way.
My hand reaches for the lock, fingers landing against the metal, prepping to twist it.
Trepidation has me pausing. What if I’m insane?
Could this all be a weirdly coincidental dream, and I just murdered a bunch of innocent people?
Could past trauma have twisted my psyche so catastrophically that I conjured all this up after a rambunctious dino sparring session?
It’s the last memory I have that feels concrete.
Maybe Kyle knocked me too hard in the head, and that’s why I fell asleep at such an odd hour.
No.
Don’t do that, I scold myself.
Don’t whittle down the memories that are driving you forward. I could punch myself for debasing such a meaningful relationship that happened somewhere else.
I have to find her.
It’s the only way I’ll know.
My fingers flick the lock open. Hand moving down to twist the knob, I take a steadying breath.
Chest heaving with a mix of nervous energy and excitement, I pull the door open and step out.
The dark coloured carpet will hide the slowly falling blood drops especially well since the orange geometric pattern pulls your eye.
The sign next to the door states the elevators are down the hall, and I have to rein in my desire to sprint the distance.
The further my mind descends into panic, the faster my feet move.
As I come upon the silver double doors, my heart rate hits a new thundering beat. My thumb smashes the Down button as Rose’s laugh pierces through my brain like a railroad spike.
Will Chelsea be in the room with her? If they’re even still there…
Pulling out my phone, it’s nearing ten p.m. I don’t know what time the dance starts, and I’m kicking myself for not reading the sign taped to the dining room door.
Too driven by frenzied thoughts of how to off Michelle, and make it hurt.
The elevator dings, shiny doors opening to welcome me inside. My thoughts don’t stop as I step in, they spiral further. The 400 button blurs in and out of focus as I battle my hysteria, searching for the peace Rose can offer me in turmoil of her making.
I press the button, and it illuminates. My head lies back against the wall, eyes falling shut as the elevator doors close. The claustrophobic box shudders to life, taking me lower into the ship.
Since laying my obsidian gaze on that addicting little bloodflower, every plan I’ve concocted has been derailed. Passion’s in the driver’s seat, and it’s fucking up my usually controlled demeanour.
The gallon of sticky blood plastered across my body proves that.
It’s seeped beneath my clothes, cold and suffocating, binding itself to me like a rotting cocoon.
Every movement drags and scrapes across my skin, a constant reminder I’m trapped within it.
Like an insect caught in a Venus flytrap, forced to watch its own incarceration, I am forced to endure the slow, and potentially inevitable approach of my own demise.
This blood may be my downfall, leading the authorities right to me.
The elevator dings, pulling me from the thoughts of impending doom. My somber mood stares back at me. Then the reflective doors slide open, bringing with it a tug in my chest.
Hope.
Despite the well I risk drowning in, I start my ascent to climb out of it, taking my first step out of the mechanized box.
A wooden sign sways above, catching my eye. Staterooms are to the left, and there’s an indoor pool to the right.
I’m torn between taking off full tilt, or walking a lap to get a grip on myself. However, my feet are frozen in place because of my inability to make a fucking decision. Pulling inward, I give myself an embarrassing pep talk.
Come on, Rip. You’ve never been afraid of anything in your life. You face everything head-on, never faltering, never breaking. She’s just a person—a woman, who could hold the very thing you thought you never wanted in her resilient, toxic claws.
The worst that can happen is she doesn’t know you, and you’ve planned for that.
I’ll make her mine, no matter what, so I don’t know why I’m floundering like a fucking moron.
But the unknown is damn terrifying and unsteadying.
A couple approaches the elevator, clearly having come from the pool. “Going up or down?” the older gentleman says, forcing me to communicate in the midst of an internal crisis.
“Uh, neither,” I gruff. “Just waiting for someone.”
He nods, and I start to move down the hall toward the rooms. The decision to get going being made for me in order to keep this interaction as brief as possible.
I take the long way, starting at room 499 and working my way around to 437.
The worries start to melt away the closer I get.
I swear I feel her with each nearing step.
An energy travels across my skin, increasing in intensity until I’m sure I’m vibrating from the charge.
It thrums like a magnetic pull, drawing me in without thought, or effort.
I’m swallowed up by a singular need, and it feels like floating across a cavern without any risk of falling.
My boots stop before the heavy, dark door. The number plaque staring me right in the face. This supernatural force threatens to yank me through the wood, and I steady my stance, bracing my palms on the doorframe.
This is it.
I hesitate.
It’s only a moment, but it feels like my soul will tear out of my chest to force us together if I wait a second longer.
My knuckles rap against the door. Quiet at first, then increasing in demand.
“Who is it?” a voice calls out, though muffled by distance.
Chelsea.
She better not cause a problem. I have no qualms ridding every obstacle in my way to Rose, though it would taint our reacquaintance quite devastatingly.
“Uhh,” I grumble, clearing my throat. “Housekeeping!” I keep my tone light, slightly feminine, and not at all threatening.
“One second!”
Just open the fucking door.
Please.
Dampened murmurs can be heard when I press my ear to the door, but no matter how hard I try to discern the words, I can’t.
The seconds climb uncomfortably as I shift my weight from foot to foot. Walking in an impatient circle at the threshold, I drag my hands down my face.
Get it together.
I can’t, it feels like I’m coming apart at the seams all over again.
The cauldron boils over, and I knock far too aggressively, banging my fist into the door so hard the 437 sign rattles.
“Who is it?”
It’s her.
All the moisture disappears from my mouth as her talons sink into my flesh, slicing through the sinew and muscle to coil around my heart. Rose threatens to rip the stalled muscle clean from my chest and keep it with her for eternity.
“Housekeeping.” My reply is squeaky and weak, as my fingers coil around the doorframe to keep me steady.
Her voice, sweet and light like the most delectable whip cream, comes again, “We don’t need anything.”
I beg to differ, bloodflower.
“I have towels sent by Mr. Melborne.”
“Just a minute, please.”
I don’t think I can last a moment longer.
I raise my knuckles once again, and knock insistently.
“You can just leave them by the door, I’ll grab them!” she calls out. I can hear the annoyance in her voice, buried beneath the engrained teachings to be polite, and the urge to taunt her further pulls me deep below the surface.
“We aren’t allowed to do that, it’s unhygienic.”
She huffs, deep and irritated, as her feet shuffle across the carpet towards me.
I can feel it again. That energy ramping up and pulling us together.
The chain lock inside the room clangs as she rivals the slowest fucking tortoise while sliding it free. The metal scrapes the door as the links sway, the sound amping me up further.
The inner workings of the doorknob clink, and I watch the knob twist. Glacially, she drags out this excruciating impending reunion.
The door swings open, and our eyes lock. Her breath hitches, my cock twitching in response. A smile breaks across my face, lip stinging in faraway pain as the wound reopens.
The air in my lungs stalls as I wait for any sort of response from her. I see the world in her sparkling eyes as I gaze down upon her, but for the life of me, I can’t tell what she’s thinking.
Resolve that I have to commit yet another crime blankets over me. Finally finding my voice, I say, “There you are, I’ve been looking for you.”
Her expression shifts, though not in the way I want. She’s perplexed, not relieved. And when her voice comes again, it guts me in the worst fucking way.
“Do I know you?”