Chapter 27 #2
“And let's be crystal clear," I squeeze her hand in mine, making sure she’s wholly focused on me. "I killed him. Me. And I wish I hadn't, just so I could do it slowly and give him every bit of suffering he really deserved. His death is on my hands. You don't get to feel responsible for it."
"I shot him first," she argues.
"You shot for self defense, I shot because I wanted to.” The confession sits heavy on my heart, but it’s the truth. “Because I needed him to pay for causing you such terror.”
For either a minute or possibly even ten, she doesn’t say anything, soaking in the dark admission I’ve just made. For a second, I wonder if maybe she has fallen asleep.
"It's too quiet," her small, wavering voice finally pleads. "Can we... I don't know, go watch TV or something?"
I cringe at the question I'm about to ask, feeling as if I'm assuming something I shouldn't. But she just rode my fucking thigh to orgasm, and her shaking hand is desperately clinging to mine, so maybe it's not that unimaginable.
"Do you want to watch it downstairs? Or I have one over in my room?"
She looks at me from the corner of her eye, playful suspicion finally bringing a little light to her face. "Are you trying to get me into bed, Mr. Fomori?"
A brief chuckle escapes my chest, "Technically, you're already in one of my beds, Miss Danaan. But like I said, I'm pretty sure you're about to hit a wall and crash, and I'd rather you do that in a bed than on the couch that's hardly been sat on and I can guarantee is not as comfortable."
"There's no way I'm gonna crash," she insists. "I can still feel the fear crawling under my skin, the unspent energy from the adrenaline."
I can think of a few more ways I can spend your energy.
"Well, humor me," I sit and stand, pulling her to her feet with me. "If it helps, I can put up a little pillow barrier between us."
She smirks, looking at the floor, "Barriers haven't stopped you from getting to me before."
"Oh, no, the barrier is to keep you off of me, Bunny," I tease. "You've gotten pretty handsy tonight." I hold up our entwined hands as proof, doing anything just to pull another smile from her face.
Her lips twitch, but the only proof of her finding humor in me is the glimmer in her eyes.
"We can watch up here," she acquiesces.
The walk back to my own room is quick, but every step closer feels like time is slowing.
Having Brigit in the bed where I sleep, where I've dreamed of her almost every night since we met, has me feeling equally feral and terrified.
I've seen the proof of who she is along the walls and shelving in her apartment.
And now she'll have an opportunity to do the same, but the difference is that my home is empty. Devoid of all connections to the human world. Whether it was always like that, or if everything important was destroyed, I still can't quite say.
The flicking of the light switch echoes across the house.
Maybe it doesn't, and it's just the finality of it echoing through my head.
The deep blue bed seems infinitely smaller than it did this morning when I climbed out of it.
Suddenly, there aren't enough pillows or a cozy enough comforter. The rug peeking out from beneath it, the butter-soft navy and gray, looks unwelcoming and cold.
But she slips her shoes off at the door anyway, releasing my hand to do so. Her feet sink into the rug, pulling out a sigh of contentment.
Looking over her shoulder at me, she raises a curious brow, "Are you okay?"
With a nod, I finally shake myself out of being frozen at the threshold, stepping further from her towards my dresser and the remote waiting there.
The rustling of sheets behind me makes my skin heat.
She's in my bed.
Not only is she in my bed, but she chose to be there.
My heart races beneath my ribs, hard enough that it might escape if I don't get it under control.
Without turning to look at her and see how unbelievably overwhelming it'll be to see her in it, I turn on some garbage reality show, leaving the volume low enough that she could sleep through it if she needed to.
The captions float across the bottom, mapping out the woman in a bikini with a microphone dangling from it, yelling at a man in swim trunks who also has a microphone attached.
What's the point of being in swimsuits if they're hooked up to stuff that prevents them from going swimming?
I'm stalling.
I don't know what kind of animal I'm going to turn into once I look and see Brigit between my sheets.
I'm only delaying the inevitable.
So I turn, letting my eyes fall over the bumps between the blanket first, seeing the vague shape of her legs, before my gaze goes higher and higher, my throat going dry at the sight of her nestled in my bed, wrapped in my blanket, and leaning against the wooden headboard.
Her wild waves piled on top of her head, the strands falling out from the haphazard bun.
Her still red-rimmed eyes that even her extensive skincare routine couldn't wash away.
Even freshly traumatized and still shaking, she's the picture of poised and immaculate.
And thankfully, she's not paying attention to me and my admiration at all, her gaze glued to the drama unfolding before her.
Definitely for the best, she needs this distraction from the shit unfolding in her real life.
Our problems will certainly still be here tomorrow, but for tonight at least, she can lose herself to someone else's.
Gathering all my courage, I walk around to my side of the bed and slide into it, only under one layer of blankets, letting her have the rest to herself to keep at least something between us.
The choice to keep the lights on might make it difficult to sleep, but I don't think she wants to be in the dark tonight, not after what she's been through, and not in an unfamiliar place with a man she claims to want nothing to do with.
"Thank you," she mumbles once I'm settled.
I keep my eyes locked on the screen, "For what?"
She breathes slowly out her nose, the quiet whoosh of air filling the space between us, "For protecting me."
I didn't, though. She protected herself. All I did was come in behind her and help clean up the mess.
She has such strength, and for some reason, she's afraid of it as much as she is of me, if not more.
"You're welcome," I say anyway. Diving into her fear surrounding the truth might be too much to ask for tonight.
Leaning back against the headboard, we don't speak again, letting the TV be the only sound in the room for a few minutes, freeing us from having to fill the silence with words or even our own thoughts.
And despite her belief that she wouldn't be able to, Brigit falls asleep, something I only notice when her body relaxes, and her head lolls, resting on my arm.
And for the first time since I woke up in the hospital, I feel centered enough to truly relax, dozing off almost immediately after her.