Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
FOREST
Dark slate walls with veins etched into the surface, just as I remembered it. If things haven’t changed, this is the only proper bathroom on the premises. Those who live outside the walls of Wilde Manor bathe in the springs in the summer and use a communal shower in the colder months.
Live as we say, not as we do.
A pale green light bar is lodged beneath an overhead fixture, casting a soft glow upon the sink and mirror.
Tucker stands hunched over the double sink, his reflection in the dull mirror wincing every time I pry another shard of glass from his back.
He’s been scarred so much, so what’s another dozen or so?
Most people hide their scars, ashamed of them.
Not Tucker. He wears them like a badge of honor, each with a storied memory told in poetic rhymes.
There’s many more stories sliced into his skin than I remember.
Stories I’m not privy to because I wasn’t around when they were earned.
In many ways, his scars are like my tattoos.
But he remembers each and every one of his, and many of mine are a blur.
Still, each tattoo etched into my body evokes a feeling. The cross on my middle finger burns with disillusionment. The flock of black birds flying away down the side of my ribs reminds me of freedom. And the forest of trees, the map that brought me back home, has always filled me with dread.
Now I understand why.
I’ve gotten most of the big pieces of glass out of his skin, but there’s still tiny pieces lodged in there that can only be found by smoothing my hand over the surface of his storied skin.
My fingers brush over a raised scar near his spine, and in the mirror, his gaze meets mine.
He shakes his head gently as if to say he’s not talking about it.
I rub the scar back and forth and prick myself, sharp like a paper cut.
He leans forward, his back arching, and turns around. He wears a blank expression as he reaches behind his back, pulls the bloodied shard out, and tosses it into the sink, the clattering of it echoing off the walls.
I pinch the tip of my finger, watching as an insignificant pool of blood balloons from my flesh.
Tucker lowers his eyes to the wound, visibly swallows something…
trepidation? He reaches out for my hand, but I pull away.
Instead, I raise my finger to my own lips and suck the blood into my mouth like it’s an antidote for something unnamed.
He cocks his head over his shoulder, examining his muscular back. “How did we kill my mother?”
The words leave his lips with the same tone typically reserved for the most mundane questions. How was your day? How was your steak? Looking?
I suck at the wound on my finger once more, biding my time. But when he turns back around, eyes of hardened wood, I realize the question does not match the nonchalant tone.
I let out a trembling sigh and shrug. “It was a game that spiraled out of control.
“A game?”
Again, nonchalant, but we both know I’m on trial here, and the punishment if I say the wrong thing will more than fit the crime.
I can’t decipher if he’s playing a malevolent game or if he truly doesn’t remember.
The latter option terrifies me because it would mean there’s something more nefarious at play. How could we both forget so much?
We used to play games all the time. The dangerous kind.
Quite a few of us kids died back then, but it wasn’t our fault.
The Wilds made us do it. I can’t speak for the rest of the survivors of our childhood, but I know full damn well it was nothing more than an excuse for us to pretend we didn’t carry the burden of the dead on our souls.
Just in case Tucker’s inquiry is serious, I tell the truncated version of the truth. “You, me, Bashian, Zeva, and a few others I don’t remember. At first, it was a harmless prank, but then the Wilds demanded blood and we gave it exactly what it wanted.”
He laughs, quiet but deep.
Amusement?
Disbelief?
“She died in a car accident,” he whispers, voice cracking just a bit.
“I’m not making this up.”
“Your mind is playing tricks on you.” He points a finger squarely at me, and it might as well be a gun. “You don’t remember what you did fifteen minutes ago, so how do you know anything you remember is real?”
“I remember her screams.” I drag my palms over my face, trying to drown out the terror in her voice that rings in the back of my mind like a phone that won’t stop buzzing. “It’s not something you forget.”
He inches closer to me and looks down. He’s not much taller than me, but enough that his shadow hangs over me. “Those screams in the dark corridors of your mind are the screams of others. Somewhere along the way, you’ve gotten confused.”
I refuse to believe that the one thing I remember vividly isn’t the truth.
I’ve forgotten so much. There are many pieces of my past I wish I could remember.
Many pieces I wish I could forget. What we did to his mother is one of those things I’ve never been able to shake.
Makes me wonder if it has something to do with the man who attacked me in my trailer.
I place my hands on the edge of the sink and take a gander at myself in the mirror.
Tucker joins me at the side, his hairy arm brushing against my hairless arm.
Our reflections are smeared in the dull mirror, but it’s easier to talk to him like this. Easier when I’m not really talking to him at all.
“Why did you kiss me?” I ask. “And don’t say the Wilds made you do it. I’ve been back two hours and I’m tired of it already.”
“Why did we ever do the things we used to do?”
“Because we were raised in an environment that didn’t dare question this thing. In the real world, they call it a cult.”
“There’s a fog you can’t see through, like it’s sitting there in your pretty little head wallowing.
” He angles his head to stare at the side of my face.
I don’t meet him there, instead opting to continue watching his reflection in the mirror.
“Did you push me through a window because I reminded you of something you regret, or are there shards of glass stuck in my skin because you honestly don’t remember? ”
I scoff because it’s such a ridiculous story. “You’re saying we’ve kissed before?”
He reaches forward, brushing a finger over my bottom lip, and then he pries me open, the taste of tobacco permeating into the blood vessels of my lips.
I grit my teeth and grind out, “I’ll chomp your fingers off.”
He readjusts his touch, caressing his thumb over my cheek. “I’m glad you’re home.”
I finally look at him, the real him. Not his reflection. But him.
It’s a game. Another dangerous game. It has to be.
He knows what we did. Knows it was wrong and is hellbent on making me pay.
There’s no other explanation for the way he’s looking at me right now.
No other explanation for him telling me he’s glad I’m home when I just reminded him how we brutally killed his mother.
I take a measured step back, colliding with the wall behind me. “You should shower.”
And yeah, he should clean up, but it’s a smokescreen. A distraction for me to get the fuck out of here before I get trapped again.
“You’re covered in blood,” I say, as if he’s a toddler who needs convincing. “You need to clean the wounds.”
His exhales, breath of hot fire landing like a gust of wind against my lips.
Smiles.
Nods.
And then his fingers are at the buckle of his jeans, unfastening the metal that clanks as each side of the leather falls forward, hanging to the sides. His eyes remain fixed on mine as he unbuttons and tugs his zipper down, exposing trimmed pubic hair.
I quickly avert my gaze, but hear his buckle and jeans pooling on the floor.
He turns in a slow circle, practically begging me to follow him.
But I don’t.
I won’t.
He steps out of the pale green light and turns the corner, disappearing into the large walk-in shower.
I’m halfway to the glass door of the bathroom when I hear the shower turn on, the water pounding against the tiled floor. I reach for the handle and shove it down, pushing the door open just a crack.
“The river runs through my veins, guiding me home,” Tucker sings quietly, his husky voice painting the walls in haunted echoes. “In the dark, in the night, the moon shines so bright.”
I cock my head over my shoulder as I let go of the door, allowing it to draw to a close. And I swear I’m not in control. I wouldn’t take one step towards my stepbrother, let alone two. And then three. Four.
Steam billows around the corner of the open shower. Tucker’s voice grows louder. “In the forest, in the trees, the eyes of the Wilds watch over me.”
I perch one hand on the cool marble wall and peek around the corner.
The shower itself is exactly as I remembered it. Big enough to house at least six grown adults, but with only one showerhead.
Tucker scrubs his short, dark hair with both hands, running in circles as the overhead rain shower falls over his body like a waterfall. Soapy water races down his tanned back, cascading over the pale mounds of his muscular ass.
“Thy ancient roots beneath, when my life is through, promise you’ll take me into the dirt.”
His hands trail down his sides as he bows his head against the slate wall.
He reaches for his right cheek and massages the soap into a sudsy foam, and the sight of him like this stops me dead in my tracks.
The body. The pose. It’s like he’s recreating the note that was left for me back at my trailer.
Toying with me.
Fucking with me.
Some things never change.
I take another step forward, my bare foot landing in a puddle of shower water that hasn’t yet drained. And then another step, another splash. My fingers dance at the hem of my shirt, cutting beneath the fabric and combing through the hair of my happy trail.