Chapter 16
Salvario
She’s dancing again.
I shut down my system and rise from my chair. Faint music filters through the closed door of my study. I step closer and open it, the sound swells in the hallway.
A song stops abruptly, then another starts. It plays for only a few seconds before changing again. Then something else begins.
I slow my steps, even though I can’t bear to wait another second to see her—happy, dancing, jumping around. But I won’t reveal myself until she’s completely lost in her world, or I might ruin my chance to witness this.
A song plays: “Your name’s on my lips before I can think, caught between memory and the edge of the brink...”
The music system she’s using is mine. I got it as a Christmas present when I was eight. It has all the popular songs from back then. But I never got to use it.
My father hated loud noises. And after he died, listening to music never once crossed my mind.
She sings along softly at first, then her voice grows louder.
I move around the corner and stand in a darker spot where the colorful lights don’t reach. With a folded paper held to her mouth like a microphone, she sings into it, swaying slowly.
“You don’t love me, I know that, but my heart won’t take it back. Every beat screams your name, even if it’s not the same for you...”
She’s wearing another one of my shirts—this one is black. She drops to her knees and hugs Bruno’s neck, pressing her face to his. She offers her paper mic to him, as if urging him to join in.
And because this bastard turns into a complete puppy around her, he howls while she sings: “I’m the shadow in your light, wide awake at three each night.”
She’s on her feet again, shouting along with the music, louder than the singer herself: “You don’t know how deep this runs, how it lives inside my lungs. Every heartbeat spells your name—you’re ruining me, still I want you!”
She tosses her paper mic aside and starts moving as if she has no bones in her body, as if no one is watching. She moves backward, then drops to the floor, lifts her leg, and slowly rotates it with the beat.
The shirt rides up. Revealing the black briefs underneath.
It takes a moment for my brain to catch up with what she’s wearing, and the way she’s moving. When it does, my cock jerks behind my zipper, the tension in my balls tightening with every second I keep watching.
For the first time in my life, I feel the urge to grip my dick in a tight fist and pump it hard. I want to rip this shirt off her and make her dance like this—naked. The thought alone sends a pulse of liquid surging from my shaft.
Unable to take it any longer, I turn to leave, to take care of it. But stop around the corner.
I need to watch her as much as I need to jerk off.
So I move back to my spot and watch, crossing my arms below my chest to keep my hands locked in place, to stop myself from reaching down, taking out my aching cock, and stroking it hard while I watch her.
She moves to her knees, dancing with Bruno, laughing as she twerks.
She did the same thing last time, but then she’d worn a bathrobe that covered almost her entire body.
Not like today, when the shirt is bunched at her waist, and I can see the roundness of her ass cheeks through the boxers that cling to her.
And the extra knowledge that they’re my fucking boxers makes everything so much worse.
She rolls on the floor, Bruno moves above her, licking her face and neck, making her laugh. That sound is never going to leave these walls—even after she does.
Only four more nights.
The arousal drains from me, replaced by an emptiness. She won’t be here after four nights. There will be no laughter. No music. Only the dark, eerie nights, like the ones before her.
I walk inside. She spots me instantly, still lying on the floor. Bruno moves away when he sees me. He’s no longer hostile toward me. But I feel hostility toward him these days. He gets what I can’t.
She sits up, legs folded to one side, those honey-colored eyes never shifting from me.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to turn my house into a circus?” I put a cold edge in my voice.
She rises, grinning.
“How many times do I have to tell you that you brought the circus home, and now you have to face the consequences?”
She moves to the switchboard, turns on the warm ambient lights, silences the music, then comes back to me.
“Where were you during dinner?”
“I was busy.”
“Did you eat?”
I nod.
She sighs. “And here I thought I’d have to feed you again.”
“You don’t want to?” I ask, amused. The memory of her reaction at lunch surfaces, pulling a smile to my lips.
She looks away, a faint blush coloring her pale skin. I fight the urge to cup her cheek and crush my mouth to hers. I know she wouldn’t resist. And that would make my damnation complete.
I’m not strong enough to live again, only to die more painfully. She holds the power to bring my dead world to life, and the same power to burn that life with her hatred. And she will hate me. The day I kill her father, she’ll hate me more than she could ever love anything.
She brings her eyes back to me. “Do you like it?”
“That’s a dangerous question, Princess.”
She tilts her head. “Why? Will it get me killed?”
I frown. I hate hearing the word kill—and me—in the same sentence from her lips.
“I don’t want to hear that again.”
“What?” She looks confused.
“Kill. Or death. From your mouth.”
She smiles. Steps closer. Lifts her arms and locks them around my neck. The soft skin of her fingertips grazes my neck, and every small hair there stands at attention. Her breasts press below my chest, I can feel her nipples through the fabric of our shirts. My dick twitches.
“I’ll take that as you don’t want me to die,” her smile never leaving her beautiful pink lips.
I can’t stop my hand from moving to her waist and pulling her flush against me. Her body presses further into mine. Her smile fades. Her pupils expand instantly.
I commit to memory every place where her body touches mine.
Her waist in my palm, the leather of my gloves keeping me from feeling it in detail.
Her lower belly pressing against my hard dick.
Her soft breasts pressed below my chest. Her head reaches my shoulders; she tilts it back to keep our eyes locked. It must strain her neck.
I could pull her up, make her lock her legs around my waist so she meets my eye level. We could talk without her straining. But that would be a very bad idea. What I’m doing is already bad enough. I can’t make it worse.
“Yes, Princess. I don’t want you to die. And I don’t want you to say those words again.”
She rises onto her toes, tugging me down. I know what she wants. I want it too. Badly.
So I let her go, turn, and walk away.
Elowen
I watch him leave, my mouth hanging open.
This was a spectacularly bad rejection.
I close my mouth and sink onto Bruno’s bed, feeling utterly heartbroken. Bruno comes to me and sits beside me, watching me with his warm blue eyes.
“He was giving me mixed signals. I wouldn’t have taken the initiative otherwise,” I mutter, stroking his fur.
Bruno licks my hand.
“He’s a jerk,” I declare, pouting.
“Let him go to hell.” I shift up on the mattress, pressing my back against the cushions.
Bruno gives a low bark.
“Yes, Bruno. Repeat after me: He. Is. A. Jerk.”
Bruno barks again.
I chuckle, sliding down on the mattress to hug him close.
There are snakes everywhere. I’m standing in the forest, screaming for help, but no one comes. They’re getting closer, each one bigger than me. One of them launches itself at my throat. I cry out.
My eyes snap open. I’m gasping, drenched in sweat. I usually get dreams like this when I sleep in a bad mood.
I shift onto my back and close my eyes again, but then I hear it. A low voice. Someone’s suppressed sobs.
My eyes fly open. I sit up in bed.
On the couch in front of me, he’s sleeping.
I get up and walk toward him. His jaw is clenched tight, his face contorted in pain. As I move closer, I see tears covering his face.
I quickly kneel beside him on the floor and brush the tears from his temples.
“Wake up,” I urge, holding his face.
I cradle his jaw in my palms, caressing his cheek. The stubble is rough under my thumbs.
His eyes open. Tears pool in his bloodshot eyes; a fresh stream falls from them. I wipe it away with my thumb without releasing his face.
“Don’t leave me,” he whispers, his voice fractured with pain.
My own eyes burn at the sight of him like this.
“I wo—” He doesn’t let me finish.
He sits up abruptly, doesn’t even glance my way, just gets up and leaves.
I watch his tired, lonely back retreating.
I collapse onto the floor, staring at the empty doorway.
He pulls me closer, but when I lean in—attempting to kiss him—he pulls away. Then, after I fall asleep, he comes back and sleeps on the couch. When I try to comfort him, he pushes me away.
What am I supposed to make of any of this?