Chapter 9
Nine
SEBA
Too hot.
Too cold.
Too hot again.
Frustrated, I kick off the sheets and run a hand through my hair, gripping the roots.
The digital clock on my nightstand blinks 2:16 a.m. Darkness saturates the room— no moon tonight.
Neither the distant frog song nor physical exhaustion from my run earlier has knocked me out.
Every time I start to drift off, I’m assaulted by an onslaught of images.
They rewind and replay on repeat, taunting and twisting me into a confused mess.
A phantom silhouetted in cool LED light, lean muscles shifting beneath pearlescent skin. Shadows slinking around a slim waist and through the valleys disappearing into the waistband of pinstripe cotton shorts. And those smooth, creamy thighs…
Something stirs low in my abdomen. Tightens.
I don’t like men. It’s wrong. I don’t see men that way. So wrong. I’m straight. All wrong.
Even if I did, lust is a sin— let alone experiencing it for… him.
Cade.
My stepbrother.
Grinding my knuckles into my eye sockets, I try to think of anything else— football plays, SATs, anything else— but the barrage doesn’t let up.
A slasher film of vicious eyes, venomous words and vindictive smirks cuts to a vacant stare, muffled gurgling, and uncontrollable shaking.
Unable to hear me. Immovable. Trapped in a strange dissociative state.
Until I touched him.
My palm tingles at the memory of velvet softness over a firm bicep— gone in a flash as he recoiled, eyes wide with pure terror. He’s never looked so young. So fragile.
I’m not sure which version of him I’m more afraid of. Because that glimpse beneath the surface expelled all anger, instinct demanding me to go to him, hold him close and shield him from pain.
Pain caused by me.
Because I called him a demon.
Some would argue he's showcasing classic signs of possession. That his reaction is proof that an evil entity hosts his body. It certainly would explain his violent shifts in demeanor and hatred of religion. But I'm not completely sold.
Blowing out a sigh, my arms flop to the mattress.
Tonight, he intended to strike where I'm weakest. And he succeeded. I’m still seething at the blatant mockery of my faith. But alone in the kitchen, his subtle truth masked in sarcasm smacked me in the face.
It's retaliation.
Spending eight hours a day together has confirmed all my suspicions: Cade has a bizarre relationship with food.
Most of the time, he avoids it, though I’ve caught him on occasion sneaking into the Parish Hall's kitchen to nibble on a sandwich (only half) or pick at some snacks (never anything sweet). Sometimes, if he does eat, he’ll go to the bathroom immediately after (and when I followed him once, I definitely heard retching.)
I’ve tried forcing him to eat. Then tried ignoring it. But it’s impossible. He’s clearly starving himself and I don’t get it. Yeah, I know some girls who diet to get skinny, but this is different.
And it's getting worse.
I roll on my side, hugging the pillow as I stare at the bathroom door. He hasn’t left his room since I came upstairs and showered. No light from the crack beneath. Dark and silent.
Maybe he’s just nervous about school on Monday.
My eyelids droop.
Anxiety… yeah… that’s all it is.
Then close.
Everything's gonna be fine…
Dark.
Right, God?
And silent.