Chapter Thirteen #2
His laugh is harsh, hateful. “Isn’t it? That’s ridiculous. Nobody forced you to steal from me. You almost—”
“Almost what?” I cry, still not understanding.
I know why I hate him, but I still don’t understand why he’s so filled with rage toward me.
All I did was take the damn shoes. “You can have your stupid slippers. I left them upstairs.” Even that has me glancing upward, toward the staircase, thinking of them. I can’t help the longing in my voice.
“I don’t just want the shoes now,” he says evenly. “I want the thief who stole them. You’ve gotten out twice now. If you try to escape from me again, I’m afraid you won’t care for the consequences. I’m sick of you. It won’t take much to tip the scales out of your favor.”
“Please,” I implore him, ashamed of the need spewing from my mouth. “Please just let me go home to my sister. I swear, I won’t tell anyone about you or what you are. I just want to leave. Why won’t you let me go?”
The demon stares down at me. Then he answers my question with his own. “Do you understand what it’s like to be tied to something you hate?”
“No, not at all,” I blurt out, the sarcasm thick and impulsive.
“You are either incredibly foolish or purposely provoking me.” I swear, for a moment, a growl hovers in his throat. But I don’t care.
“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? For what?” I snarl, all worries of retribution gone.
I’m tired of holding back. Let me be a band across his wrist. Nothing I say will prevent or prolong it if he makes up his mind to hurt me.
“Actually, you know what? I do feel sorry for you! You don’t even have a soul! A heart. You’re just…empty.”
The rage lit behind his eyes has me snapping my mouth shut. I’ve gone too far this time.
I push back into the door even harder and draw my hands up, defensively. He doesn’t touch me, but he does get closer, placing his hands on either side of me, against the wood. He refuses to let me space myself from him, leaving a mere inch or two between our bodies.
He leans in, face so near to mine I see myself reflected in his stare, his cool breath on my upper lip.
I gulp, staring at him, his eyes, his mouth.
He looks back at me so long I think I forget to breathe.
The demon is so close the heat from his body warms my skin. He breathes in, a long draw, almost…
Almost like he’s…inhaling me.
My heart catches, something deep in my belly warming despite myself.
Then he moves slightly to my side, so that his hair touches my cheekbone. “You want to push me?” His whisper is a low rumble in my ear, sending chills up my spine. “I will push you harder, so much harder.”
Mr. Brown comes lumbering downstairs with a cut on his forehead and blood trickling over one eye.
The demon doesn’t look back at him but tenses, adding, “Speaking of push, don’t even think about harming anyone in this household again, Miss Bell.
You’re lucky you did not kill him. You’re lucky I don’t kill you because of it. ”
I guiltily turn my eyes from the sight of Mr. Brown’s injured face.
The demon gives me one last, unbreakable glance, still agonizingly close to me. His voice is jagged, and he closes his eyes, like he can’t stand the sight of me. “Mr. Brown, get her out of here. Forget what I said before.”
He steps away from me, out of the foyer, and down the hall.
He does not turn back to say anything else, does not punish me for harming his butler, nor for trying to escape, nor for baiting him.
Confusion fuddles my brain, and I scratch my nails against the wood at my back, hoping to feel the freedom beyond it.
Then Mr. Brown pulls me away. He drags me upstairs and refuses to say a word to me on the way to my room.
Yet, I think I catch a small flash of something across his face—admiration, maybe.
Underneath the blood dripping from the cut.
“Wait.” I catch his eye and cringe with shame. “I’m sorry, Mr. Brown. I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“Did you think being pushed down the stairs would feel good?”
“I had to at least try,” I say, half in a whisper. “Wouldn’t you?”
He nods, surprisingly, then starts to shut the door to my room.
“Why didn’t he harm me? Why didn’t he kill me?” I ask, mostly to myself.
Mr. Brown pauses. “Maybe he’s tired of killing,” he answers in a thoughtful way.
The door closes. I go to my favorite chair and sit, bury my face into my shaking hands. Too tired to kill me? If he’s tired of killing, I’ll try to escape again. Next time, I could be successful. If the demon is too tired to kill, perhaps he’ll be too tired to chase me down.
I wait, but he doesn’t call me to dance for him after supper like usual.
Too irate, I suppose. And I still don’t know why he even wanted to see me in the first place.
I move around, nervousness flowing through me.
What will he do to me next time we meet?
I dance on my own, pushing my edginess into grace, because I have to do something with this energy. When night falls, I climb into bed.
Shutting my eyes, I can’t help but think about the unsettling way he stared at me, at the way he breathed me in.