Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
FENRIR
PRESENT
Hayami wakes at three twenty.
I sit up, having been slouched in the chair for the last few hours. Presuming she’s just visiting the bathroom, I wait for her to switch the light on, but she doesn’t.
She just sits upright, her head flopping to one side before she slowly slides a leg from under the covers. Her body twists awkwardly as she slithers from the bed.
Something’s wrong.
Her arms hang loose by her sides, like they’re attached by elastic bands. Her head droops forwards, her shoulders hunched at an unnatural angle.
Fuck. Is she sleepwalking?
As far as I know, Hayami has no history of sleepwalking. So what the hell is this?
She moves to the foot of the bed, her steps jerky, her head lolling slightly, dark hair veiling half of her face.
I lean in, wishing there was a fucking zoom on this camera.
Then, without warning, she runs her hands over her body, stopping at her breasts. She squeezes them, pushing them together, and exposes one of her nipples.
Fuck.
Is this another one of her stupid games? If it is, I’m not fucking laughing.
But no—there’s something strange about her hands. Her fingers look arched, bony, almost clawlike.
Is she dreaming? Is this some sort of sleep-acting?
I don’t feel right watching this, but I can’t look away. Something about her movements isn’t natural. There’s no fluidity to her rhythm, no softness to her touch. It’s stiff. Mechanical. Unsettling.
Her hands leave her breasts as she runs her nails up and down her arms as if she’s cold. Her movements become faster and faster until she’s breaking the skin.
Then her hands creep up to her lips. Her fingers scuttle like centipedes as they burrow between her lips and pull, forcing an inane grin.
I shudder. What the fuck is she doing? She’s going to tear her fucking mouth open.
I need to get to her, but I can’t stop watching. I can’t tear myself away, but I must. This isn’t right. She isn’t right.
There’s no sound coming through the cameras, but I hear her scream in my head as her mouth widens and her eyes spring open.
I run. Fucking fly up the stairs as her scream swells through the house.
I fling open the door and grab her. “Hayami, wake up.”
Her eyes are glassy, not focusing properly. I pull her bra back over her breasts, covering her up before she starts to come to.
“What the hell?” Willa appears in the doorway wearing grey pyjamas and an eye mask pushed up onto her head, her gun raised.
Hayami blinks, tears welling in the corners of her eyes, fear overwhelming her.
“It’s okay,” I tell her as Willa sweeps the room, her gun aloft.
“What’s going on, Fenrir? Talk to me.”
“I think she was dreaming.”
“You sure?” Willa looks at Hayami, who’s clad in only her underwear, me holding on to her, and I wonder if she thinks something else is going on here. She takes a step closer and notices the scratches down Hayami’s arms. “Hayami, are you okay?”
But she doesn’t answer, doesn’t take her eyes from me as she grips my forearms.
“Do you want me to take over?” Willa asks Hayami, who appears to snap out of her trance, though her eyes remain locked on mine.
“No.” Her voice is faint, like it doesn’t quite belong to her, but I’m relieved she hasn’t dismissed me.
“The cameras haven’t picked up anything suspicious from the rest of the house, and there’s clearly no one in here with her. I think it was just a nightmare,” I explain.
Willa drops the gun and then looks again at the scratches on Hayami’s arms. Glancing back at me, she seems to accept my version of events.
“You should go back to bed,” I tell her. “I’ll sort this.”
“You sure?” Willa eyes the room like she might have missed something.
“Yeah, I got this.”
She waits a beat, surveys the room one more time, then nods and heads for the door. “I’ll do a sweep downstairs, just to be sure,” she says before leaving.
Now alone, I look down at Hayami.
She’s still gripping my forearms. A tremor runs through her body, down her arms, and into mine, like a conductor.
“It’s okay. You’re okay,” I tell her, pulling the blanket from the foot of the bed and wrapping it around her shoulders.
“What happened?” she asks. The wobble in her voice is so unlike her that it almost doesn’t sound like her at all.
“I think you were dreaming.”
She looks at her hands, her bloodied nails.
“What did I do?” Her eyes are bulbous, the whites stark.
“You just got out of bed and started scratching your arms. Did you feel anything?”
“I just felt this dread, this horrible, awful dread, like something terrible was going to happen. And then you were in the room.”
I glance at her bed.
She shakes her head. “I can’t go back to sleep. Not after that.”
“Why don’t we get a drink?” I suggest.
“Yes. A drink.”
I lead her from the room as she tightens the blanket around her shoulders. She’s not the only one who needs a fucking drink.
* * *
HAYAMI
Rain batters the kitchen windows as if trying to get in. Its rhythm matches that of my heart still hammering in my chest.
Willa appears in grey loungewear, which just looks odd compared to her normal combats and T-shirts.
“Okay, everything’s clear,” she says to us both. “You sure you’re okay?” she asks me.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
Willa looks at Fenrir before saying, “I’ll head back up if you’re sure you’re both all right?”
“We’re good,” the Beast replies.
Shivering despite the blanket, I sit at the large table as he pulls two glasses from one of the cabinets and finds a bottle of something.
“I can’t imagine this was in the basic supplies that were delivered,” I say, taking in the artificial glow of the under-cabinet lighting and the tea towel hanging innocently on the handle of the oven. This scene feels so different from the one in my room not five minutes ago.
“I brought it.” He slides the glasses over the table and pours a generous amount into each.
I take the glass. “I didn’t peg you for a whisky drinker.” I’ve never had whisky before. My father drinks it, which has been enough to put me off it, but I’ll gladly drink anything if it’ll thaw the ice coating my bones.
“Sometimes, it’s the only drink that’ll do.”
“And this is one of them?” I raise the glass to my lips.
“Sip it,” he tells me.
It’s hot, like drinking fire, waking up my dormant taste buds as the flavour explodes in my mouth.
“Jesus.” I purse my lips. “People drink this out of choice?”
He almost laughs. Almost.
“Don’t overthink it. Just let it do its job.” He makes his way over to the sink, opens the cupboard, and fishes out a box. He rifles through it and finds a first aid kit.
Wordlessly, he lays the kit out on the table and finds antiseptic wipes. Then he stops and assesses me before speaking.
“Show me your arms.”
I unwrap myself from the blanket whilst trying to keep my chest covered. Not because I feel like he’s watching me, but I don’t want him to feel uncomfortable.
He scans the scratches.
“Did I do this?” I ask, my voice breaking.
“Do you remember doing it?” He pulls a chair out and sits opposite me. As he takes one of my arms in his hand, he says, “This’ll sting.” Gently, he dabs at the wound with the antiseptic wipe.
I wince, and he pauses, the wipe held aloft. He looks at me, waiting. I nod, silently giving him permission to continue. He’s so gentle, so careful, and it amazes me. Because he’s so brutal, so fierce looking. I’ve never seen this side of him, this caring, careful Beast.
He continues to clean the wounds, and I begin to relax at the touch of his enormous hands.
When he’s done, he pulls the blanket over my shoulders before moving around to the other side of the table and sitting down.
He shifts in his seat, as if he’s sat on something, then pulls a gun from the back of his waistband and places it on the table, facing the window.
He reclines, resting his ankle on the other knee, cradling his drink near his crotch.
He’s in his standard black T-shirt and black combats—always the professional, always on the job—and I wonder where the real man is, Fenrir Therion, and whether I’ve met him.
Another gulp of whisky burns my eyes. The liquid trickles down my throat, thawing the frozen fear that’s taken root.
“Can you tell me what happened?” he asks.
I take another sip, hoping it’ll give me the courage to speak, evoke some words to describe the indescribable.
There was the stripping in front of the camera. How could I forget that little stunt? But then I got into bed and fell asleep to thoughts of him touching himself. Not a detail I can share right now.
After that, nothing.
No, that’s a lie. There wasn’t nothing. There was the dread, this god-awful fear that wrapped me in cold arms and squeezed me.
And then screaming.
Someone screaming.
Pain.
Red-hot, searing pain.
New screams.
My screams.
Him.
He held me.
Covered me.
Told me it was okay when it was anything but.
No amount of whisky is going to spill these words.
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “I went to bed, fell asleep, and then you arrived. I was screaming, but I don’t know why.”
“Were you dreaming?” He tips his glass, the whisky circling the edges like it’s trying to find a way out.
“If I was, I don’t remember it. All I remember is a feeling.” I tighten the blanket around me, feel the rawness of my arms under the material.
“What feeling?”
Bile rises in my throat as I stare at the bottle. I take another sip to try and push the nausea down. The alcohol works its way through my system as if trying to douse whatever is rising within me.
I gulp before looking at him. “Fear.”
He stares at me. “What were you afraid of?”
“That’s the strange thing,” I say, the whisky fuelling me. “I’ve been scared before—as a kid. Afraid of heights. Afraid of the dark.”
I stop there, even though the list continues. I’m scared of my father—scared of what he can make me do, what he’s going to make me do, and what’ll happen when he does.
“But this fear wasn’t like being scared of something,” I explain. “It was different. This was soul-crushing. Black. Freezing. It was an all-consuming dread that had infected me—strangling me from the inside out. And there was nothing I could do about it other than let it take me.”
I glance at his scars. “Have you ever felt fear like that?”
My pulse pounds in my ears, and for a second, I think I’ve overstepped the mark, but then he answers.
“Once.”
“Of course you have.” Again, my eyes land on his scars, but this time, I keep them there.
I’ve no idea how he got them. Willa told me he was in a fire.
I don’t know how or why, but I can imagine his fear was ten times worse than what I’ve just described.
He must have been caught, trapped, whilst the flames raged.
Sensing his need to change the topic, I move on. “Did you see anything on the camera?”
“No.” His answer is too quick, too blunt, which makes me wonder what he did see.
“What do you think happened?” I ask, trying to change tack.
He blinks like he’s considering the options. “It could have been a night terror.”
“I’ve never had a night terror before.”
“There’s always a first time for everything.” He traces the rim of his glass with his finger, and it sings lightly, making me quiver.
“Have you ever had one?”
“You have to be asleep to have a night terror.” He takes a sip of whisky, and I note the ease with which he swallows it.
“You don’t sleep?”
“Not for many years.”
“Shit. No wonder you’re such a grump.”
There’s that flicker on his face, the almost smile I’ve seen before.
“Do you think it’ll happen again, the night terror?” I ask, the thread of dread still dangling like it’s waiting to coil itself around me.
“I don’t know. It’s no surprise if you think about it.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve had a stressful few days. Your life has been threatened,” he reminds me.
“Please,” I hiss.
I’m no stranger to death threats. You don’t grow up being the daughter of a gangster without having some sort of threat hanging over you.
I should be scared—most people would be frightened living this way—but I’m not.
If anything, I feel coddled, stifled, and wrapped in so many layers I can’t move.
I’m in fear for my life, but not in the sense the Beast is referring to.
I fear what is to become of it. That it’s not my own life and never will be.
“But this is different. You’ve been moved out of your house. Cut off from your friends,” he says.
“Do you see me with friends?” I ask, glancing around the kitchen at my invisible fan club.
“Who wants to be friends with the daughter of Barrett Devall? I’m not allowed to go anywhere without my bodyguards.
No one is allowed within an inch of me without having undergone a full background check.
And no one wants to be accidentally killed just because they were hanging out with me on the wrong day.
I’ve always been alone. That’s never going to change.
But don’t feel sorry for me. I’d rather have it that way.
I don’t want to be responsible for someone else being hurt on my account. ”
He appears to consider this. “That makes sense.”
“Do you know, when we arrived here, I was pleased.”
He raises one eyebrow.
“I thought it might be my chance to run. I could get in the Jeep and drive off, never to be seen again.”
Straightening, he puts his glass down.
I roll my eyes at him. “Don’t panic. I’m not going anywhere. But do you know why I haven’t tried to run from this sorry existence?”
He shakes his head.
“It’s not that my father would find me. Though he would, let’s face it.
You can’t outrun a man like him. It isn’t even that I would spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, never being able to settle in one place, never being able to live the life I so desperately want. It isn’t any of those things.”
“What is it, then?” the Beast asks.
“He’d kill Willa. He’d kill Markus. He’d kill Bastian, and he’d kill you.
All of you. Because you’d be the reason I got away.
You’d be the people who failed him. You’d be the reason his precious daughter has vanished.
It’d be your fault, and he’d make you all pay in the most heinous way possible.
It wouldn’t be quick. You wouldn’t be spared.
He’d take his anger out on every part of your body.
He’d make an example of you. All of you.
And that’s the only reason why I won’t run. ”