Chapter 82
Clara
Idon’t know what wakes me, but I jolt up in bed, my heart racing.
I guess this will be another night with almost no sleep. It’s not like it matters how tired I am. Frustrated, I wiggle free of a pile of warm men, but when I make it to the door, I pause, unable to keep from smiling at what I see.
All four of them are sprawled out on the floor—Walker, Jansen, and RJ crowded on the two mattresses, while Trips is curled around a pillow right beside them.
The four of them, together, asleep. Jansen rolls, taking over the space I just left, and I chuckle as Walker swings an arm over him, tugging him closer.
I don’t want to leave them, but staring for too long makes me feel like a creep, so I grab one of the suit jackets from the pile, the acrid smoke still deep in the fabric, and close the door quietly behind me. Then I head downstairs to see if any of the food we got looks edible.
Someone left on a lamp in the kitchen, a warm glow that does almost nothing to light up the space.
It feels strange not to have Fluffington winding between my legs as I dig through the bags on the counter, and fury builds in my chest at what could have been.
He could have died. I can’t even imagine what that would have done to Jansen.
As it was, he was pale and shaking, unable to wind down when he came into the room, finally stilling like he fell off a cliff, RJ saying something about his meds kicking in.
He and Walker had found a 24-hour pharmacy that was willing to give him a week’s worth of meds until a new prescription can be called in, now that everything he needed was ash.
RJ had called ahead so Jansen didn’t have to stress about not getting them, and Walker joined him to verify his story with a police report RJ had forwarded.
The conversation about it had woken me up for a minute, but it also eased my mind, seeing how they all pitched in without question or prodding. How well they care for each other.
I end up opening a box of crackers, the peanut butter, and pouring myself a glass of water, glad that we at least have the smattering of dishes from Jansen and Emma staying here.
The house creaks, and I glance out the window, expecting to see flurries pummeling the panes like they were earlier, but an eerie stillness waits outside, not a single flake drifting from the trees in the streetlights.
It’s the kind of night where the temperature plummets past what anyone can survive, and I’m glad we didn’t go to pick up the cars once the police said the guys could do so.
Another creak echoes in the space, the silence making it sound closer than the other one, and I shiver, not used to this new, empty house.
A ring of keys sits at the end of the island, and I idly flick through it, recognizing Trips’ handwriting on the top of each key, the label with ‘home’ on it making my heart pang.
It’s all gone.
No more breakfasts crowded around the island or spread out on the couches in the living room.
No long baths in a clawfoot tub or finding Jansen sprawled across a pile of pillows like a prince, working to find his center.
No more room hopping or discovering pieces of each of my guys in their personal spaces.
Walker’s horrifically gorgeous mural, burned to the ground.
My pink chairs, Jansen’s practice locks, RJ’s technology, and Trips’ first step toward freedom, the house itself, all gone, eaten by hungry flames and a man unwilling to give me up. Not that he wants me. He wants the idea of me I pretended to be to keep him happy, to protect myself from his anger.
That girl is gone. Burned to a crisp and blown away by stormy winds long before he burned our home hoping to steal what we have.
What we have is bigger than any house. Than things we cared about but have already left once before. We have each other. He took my house.
He could never take my home.
It’s safe, cradled within the strong chests of the four men asleep above me.
A muffled footstep pulls my focus from another cracker, peanut butter heavy on the end of my butter knife. But when I turn, there’s no one in the hallway. The hair on the back of my neck rises.
I’ve learned enough over the last few months to trust the tingling in my fingers, the itch of worry down my spine. Setting down my cracker, I lick the knife clean, head dropped while I frantically search for something I can see a reflection in. Because I’m no longer sure I’m here alone.
There’s no strategically placed mirror or reflection in the window. I wiggle the knife around, but it doesn’t catch whatever has my ears straining in the silence.
Why isn’t life like the movies?
I slide from the folding chair and set down the useless butter knife, wishing I knew if there was anything sharper around.
With no better option, I pick up the key ring, jiggling the metal in my hand, arranging the teeth between my knuckles as I stroll back to the stairs, primed to run or scream, trying not to make it look like I’m hurrying back upstairs to the guys, even if that’s exactly what I’m doing.
I need to be closer. Not because I can’t fight, but because I know the best fight is one I’m guaranteed to win.
The slight scuff of a shoe against the wood right behind me tells me I’m out of time.
“Wake up!” I shout a second before a heavy weight slams into my back, sending me sprawling forward, my only weapon, the keys, skittering out of reach.
I try my best to roll, but I’m taken down at a strange angle, my knee slamming into the floor and the doorknob of the front door digging into my shoulder, before I smack my head against the frame.
But I’m not who I used to be. Not anymore.
I twist, unsurprised to find Bryce half crawling up my body, rushing to get me pinned. I flow with his momentum until I’m lying under him, and when he goes for my wrists, I grin, excited to practice the training RJ put me through over the last year.
Slamming my hips upwards, Bryce loses his balance, falling toward my face. I swipe my wrists down, breaking free of his grasp, turn my head so he doesn’t squash my face, then wrap my arms around him, even as my skin crawls doing it.
But it’s what has to be done.
Bryce yells, but I don’t listen, instead focusing on rolling us both so I’m on top, kneeing him in the groin. Then I dash for the stairs.
I must not have gotten a clean shot, though.
His fingers grasp my ankle like a bear trap, hauling me down.
A second later my face slams into the stairs, and I know this hit was a good one.
Or a bad one, depending on how I’m looking at it.
So bad. Definitely bad. I taste blood. He yanks me toward him, hands wrapping around my throat as I struggle, kicking out at him, trying to get a better nail at his nuts as the ceiling kaleidoscopes above me.
Not good.
The world shudders, shouts in the air as I slip to the edge of consciousness, nails scratching at his eyes with everything I have left, the stairs not giving me the leverage I need to do much of what I could.
Arms come into view, one dark and one light, trying to drag Bryce from me, but he holds on tighter, the sting of his nails around my neck barely registering as I lose the last of my vision, my lungs screaming, everything below my chin feeling compressed to the point of snapping, the blood in my skull pressing against my skin like it’s trying to break free.
I never thought I’d be intimate with the ridges of my trachea, but right now, I am.
When I next open my eyes, a hacking cough shaking me, I’m slumped at the bottom of the stairs, my head pounding, everything above my collarbones feeling weird.
Walker has me cradled against him, RJ and Trips dragging a struggling, bloody Bryce toward the kitchen, while a dazed Jansen hovers halfway down the stairs.
Jansen leaps over the side of the railing, landing just clear of Bryce’s swinging leg, before rushing in and decking him in the nose, a crunch clear in the echoey entry.
My brain still isn’t catching much in the way of words, my cough taking most of my focus, the feeling that my head is trying to explode occupying the rest, as Jansen shouts at him.
Then he slides across the floor, stopping in front of my watery eyes.
Bryce is in the house. I should be terrified. But I feel perfectly safe surrounded by the two of them. I take the time I need to recover, Jansen rushing off to get me water and a roll of toilet paper for my inexplicably running nose.
I should be used to my body freaking out after almost dying, but maybe that’s not something people get used to. At least, I hope I never find out if there is a point where it’s normal.
Once I’ve recovered enough to walk, I force myself to the kitchen, Walker and Jansen flanking me. I need to be a part of whatever we decide to do next.
They’ve awkwardly tied Bryce to a folding chair with a length of extension cord, his hands lashed behind his back with one of the guy’s ties. It’s a clever use of what we’ve got. I hope it’s enough to hold him.
Now that I can hear again, I realize Bryce is busy spitting spiteful vitriol at me. I almost wish I still couldn’t hear. “Do we have duct tape?” I ask Jansen.
He shakes his head, but pulls off his undershirt, stuffing it into Bryce’s mouth.
“Thank you,” I say.
Bryce glares, testing the cords and finding himself fully contained.
“What now?” Walker says, gaze dark as he inspects my ex.
“Now we kill him,” Trips says simply.
No one objects. Bryce might, but we can’t hear him with Jansen’s shirt shoved in his mouth.
“But how?” I ask, knowing this plan will have to be foolproof. There are too many ties between him and me for me not to be a suspect.
Trips grips the counter with both hands. “This would have been simpler if we’d just let my father kill him.” He’s right. If our wedding night required a death, better this monster than my dad.