Cameron
“HOW’S YOUR MOM?” UNCLE Danny asks, his hands working as he changes a spare tire.
Henry is off on his lunch break, and my other co-worker, Frank, is in the office on a fifteen-minute break, leaving my uncle and me alone in the garage.
I sigh, far too exhausted and mentally fucked-up to be having this conversation, but giving in anyway.
“She’s fine,” I reply without much emotion.
His brown eyes lift to meet mine, momentarily abandoning his work as he frowns. “You sure? Because you seem upset. I’m here for you, you know? I may not have been able to take you in after Ty died, but I do love you.”
His tone, his prying eyes, his full attention—they’re all overwhelming me. I’m not used to people asking to help me, and after last night, I sincerely can’t handle anything that adds fuel to this emotional dumpster fire.
“I know, thanks,” is all I can manage because otherwise, I’ll cry. Or worse, I’ll break down and tell him some thing in the shape of my ex-fling showed up in my bedroom last night.
And then touched me.
“Alright,” Uncle Danny mutters, turning back to the car before him.
Listen, if I hadn’t woken this morning covered in my own come, I would write last night off as a dream. But as my alarm rang, and I rolled out of bed, I found myself without pants and with crusty white streaks covering my lower stomach and thighs.
And then, of course, there is the giant hickey on my neck.
Everyone at work talked shit, hassling me about my new girlfriend, but all I can think about is the way his cold lips felt sucking on my skin.
I need to speak to Atticus. Sure, I could tell it wasn’t truly him—Atticus has never spoken to me in a foreign language, and those purple fingertips and black eyes were not his characteristics—but he must know something.
It looked just like him! Has he gotten himself into some kind of trouble? Is he hiding a secret, foreign twin brother?
And with all of the he talk, it sounded almost like he was referencing Atticus…
The guy last night was a he, right? Or is thing a better word for the Atticus-shaped being that was hiding in the shadows? I just don’t know!
Up until now, the craziest thing to ever happen to me was dealing with Mom or falling for a guy who hates me. And now there’s this, and I don’t know what to do with it. My only solution is to ask the source, or the sort of source, considering the appearance.
So I work until five, barely paying attention and nearly crushing my toes with a jack halfway through, and then I hop into my Mustang and head out of town.
To Chastain Castle.
As I pull up to the gates, my heart is pounding. What if it truly was Atticus, and he was on some sort of drug? That makes a lot more sense than an evil twin or a shapeshifter. But I’ve also never known him to need to abuse substances—as far as I know, he rarely even drinks.
Though I don’t think anything supernatural is more believable. Ghosts and goblins and ghouls are all fantasy, and I should remember that.
The gates are locked, of course, and last night Atlas let it slip that he and Julian were going out of town this morning, so I can’t call him to let me in. Not that I’m sure he would have.
Instead, I park off the side of the dirt road and enter the tree line, hoping for some semblance of luck so that I can find a hidden gate somewhere. One that is unlocked, preferably.
My Vans crunch the greening leaves beneath my feet, and memories of what happened when I ran into a Chastain in these woods so many years ago flood my mind.
Visions of being on my knees or spread out with my hands laid flat upon a tree trunk. Of Atticus groaning as he came down my throat and whispering dirty things in my ear as he fingered me until I exploded.
I miss it. His touch, his voice, the way he numbed me.
That’s why… that’s why I let him—or the thing that looked like him—touch me last night. I’m desperate. I’m greedy and sick.
I’m also not finding a damn entrance, no matter how far I follow the curve of the main gate. It appears I’m out of luck.
With a resigned sigh, and not the first one of the day, I turn back. I’ve walked for about five minutes, so I’m not too far from my car or too close to the actual estate, so I’m nearly startled to death when I round a tree and spot Atticus, staring at me with narrowed, angry eyes.
He’s a handful of feet away, in the direct path back to the road, and is wearing a beater and gray joggers, his hair windblown and face slightly red.
My breath sputters to a stop, and my pounding heartbeat turns into a thunderous roar as I remember last night, both with him in the kitchen here at Chastain, and… maybe with him sometime later in my bedroom.
“Are you trying to break in?” Atticus asks in a calm yet irritated tone.
And it sounds normal. Not distorted or foreign, and his eyes are so bright, so hazel, even from this distance.
“What?” I reply, startled. Only I kind of was, so I don’t follow it up with denial.
I don’t follow it up at all, just staring at him with parted lips and a whole lot of anxiety and lust.
I will never, not in a hundred years, not want him.
“Were you,” he starts, punctuating each word with a step forward until he’s right in front of me, close enough to touch, “trying to break in?”
“I-I… I wanted to talk to you,” is what I settle on, because again, I won’t lie. I was.
Atticus glares harder. “Well, I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Why not?” I demand. “Cassie can talk to you, but I can’t?”
“I didn’t want to talk to her, either.”
“Oh.”
Atticus is glowing. I know exercise can make a person shine, raising endorphins and glistening the skin, but this is different. Almost as if from the inside out, he looks different. Almost unearthly.
I always thought he was ethereal, with his startling beauty and domineering personality, but now, it feels excessive.
“Leave,” he commands, stepping to the side to wave past himself and toward the road. “Don’t come back.”
But I can see it. The way his lip twitches, his eyes never straying from mine, his chest heaving.
I think there is a chance that Atticus is fighting—that he wants me to stay yet is trying to protect himself. From me. Because I’m not as kind as I once thought I was, and I’ve crushed him.
“No,” I answer, my response simple and unwavering.
“No?” he repeats.
“That’s right. No.” This time, it’s me who closes the distance, stepping forward so that our chests brush. It feels like fire. “I’m not going anywhere until we’ve spoken.”
Something like approval, like he’s pleased, crosses over Atticus’s features, the corner of his lips quirking momentarily.
Then, it’s my typical grumpy Atticus again, and he returns to glaring.
“Someone’s learned how to make their own choices,” he observes with a deceptively blank tone. “How wonderful.”
I can tell immediately that he does not think this is wonderful.
“I wouldn’t say that,” I counter. “I just know, which is rare, yes, what I want.”
Atticus’s eyes brighten, betraying his scowl, as he stares down at me with so much heat, so much anger and longing, that I could drown in it.
But I have to focus. I have to remember what I’m here to ask, rather than how it felt to swallow his dick and make him crumble as he so frequently made me, without even being around.
Only as I’m about to speak again, his eyes fall from mine to stare at my neck, and all of that longing and heat disappears.
It’s replaced by something possessive and feral.
“What is this?” he asks in a low voice, his hand lifting to press his thumb right into the hickey on my neck.
“Isn’t it obvious?” I question, considering it was him who gave it to me. Or, at least, I hope it was.
His eyes flare.
“Don’t push me, Cameron,” he hisses. Then, he’s pressing on the bruise with enough force for it to hurt, but I keep the reaction to myself.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he starts, “that I want to know who did this to you. Who marked you.”
So he has no idea it was him who did it? Or someone, something, that looked like him? I guess that answers my question without it ever needing to be spoken.
Whatever was in my room last night was not Atticus. Not really.
But I can remember what he—it—said. That he was inside, wanting to touch me just as badly. Did that mean Atticus? Is something or someone taking over his body and tracking me down, only for Atticus to sit on the inside, dying for a taste?
The thought makes me shiver, makes me desperate.
But my hesitance in responding is taken the wrong way, and Atticus all but literally growls, shoving me backward until he has me snugly pressed against a neighboring tree.
Again.
History is repeating itself; can I change the outcome this time?
“Not going to answer me?” Atticus sneers.
“Why are you so bothered?” I shoot back.
My desire to fix this is kind of being flooded by his push and pull. Just last night I was pathetic, and now he’s acting like a jealous beast. With each shove of his hands, my anger rises, as if the testosterone in my body is fighting between a hungry need and a ravenous rage.
“Bothered?” Atticus spits out. “I’m not bothered; I’m furious. I just had my tongue shoved down your throat, and you turn up with a hickey? Are you doing this on purpose?”
“No,” I insist, feeling his anger in the depths of my bones and loving it. “I didn’t meet up with anyone else last night.”
Which is not a lie. Technically, whether or not it was him not in control of his own body or a shape-shifting monster, it wasn’t another person.
“Don’t fucking lie to me,” he demands.
Atticus’s fingers are digging into my hip, his other hand now firmly wrapped around my throat as if to hide the mark from the world around us.
The pain triggers something in me. I’ve missed this—his control and even his fury—but the false accusation is pissing me off so badly that I want to lash out.
How dare he think that I would stray after how pleading and desperate I was last night? Does he truly think I’m that horrible?
Well, fine then. I’ll let him believe whatever he likes, as long as he keeps touching me.
I’m a walking contradiction.