Chapter Thirty-Two
Falling
I’m falling, and he’s letting me, the fire down below growing closer by the second—the walls around me, black with grooves leaching lava.
What was I thinking, running my mouth as if I actually have control over my life? I scream at Mastyx, “Please, stop. I’m sorry.” Tears sting my cheeks.
He shrieks above me, “Don’t forget, you belong to me, my Little Sinner.”
My back arches beneath the painful slap of multiple sharp objects digging into my spine like glass. Without warning, my direction changes from heading toward the flames of hell to a bright light.
I pinch my eyes closed, the brightness burning my orbs.
A diabolical, low, throaty laugh echoes around me and slowly fades.
A beeping noise forces my eyes open right before I slam to the floor beside my bed, sending a lightning-like pain scorching through my arm.
I roll onto my back, the pulsating throb in my appendage making me cry out.
“Fuck,” I murmur and blink away the tears blurring my vision.
My phone alarm blares above me from the nightstand. I reach over my head, slide it off the surface and turn it off.
The back of my shirt is wet and sticky. It makes sense after the nightmare I just had.
I turn my head and gawk at my forearm. It’s twice the size it should be.
I can’t believe this. I haven’t fallen out of bed since I was eight and dreamed that I fell off my bike and woke up on my bedroom floor.
At least back then, it was carpeted, and the distance I fell wasn’t as high.
I roll onto my side and sit up, wincing as a painful burning spreads across my spine.
I twist my face in confusion. My head spins along with the room as dizziness takes over.
“No,” I say aloud to my empty room. “It was just a bad dream.”
The mattress sinks as I press the top of it and push myself to a stand, my legs like jelly, wiggling.
I stagger across the room, stand in front of my mirror and slowly turn around.
Blood spots stain the back of my Courage the Cowardly Dog shirt, where Mastyx grabbed me with his razor-sharp talons and redirected me.
It was real.
He dragged me to hell, and before I fell into the bottom of the flaming pit, he snatched me up and threw me back to the world of the living.
I drop to my knees and stare at my distraught reflection, my face red with anger and slightly burned by hell’s heat. He’s teaching me a lesson, a lesson of critical importance, a reminder that he can take me at any time, for any reason, per our contract.
I’m his. He owns me.
For the last five years, our relationship hasn’t been perfect, but given who he is, what he is, things could be so much worse. He saved my life, and I owe him my unwavering devotion and loyalty. But as my arm throbs and my back stings, all I can think about is Dr. Z.
Mastyx has made it clear to me that I’m not to have contact with or even think about him. But how? My arm is clearly broken and needs to be casted.
I wipe the moisture from my face, rise and pick up my phone. It’s only 9:00 a.m., and I’m broken, burned, and cut, in no condition to go to work. I type a quick message to my boss, letting her know I’m going to Urgent Care for a possible broken arm.
My phone pings a few seconds later. Here comes the barrage of questions. How? Are you okay? Is it your dominant side?
Really?
I’m not answering that question. They want to know if I can still come in and work with one hand. Fucking ridiculous. I could be fresh out of surgery, and my employer would ask if I’m coming in later.
No. Hell no.
I reach over my shoulder, grip the fabric of my shirt and pull it over my head.
It drops silently to the ground as I stand back in front of the mirror and turn around.
Tears burst from my eyes. Ten distinct puncture marks mar my back and will no doubt scar.
Mastyx’s claws dug deep into my flesh, like a cat clinging to a drape.
A drop of blood drains from one of the holes, clearly deeper than the rest. This will be hard to explain to a doctor.
The only thing I could think to say is that I was practicing body suspension when my equipment failed.
Makes sense. It will explain my back and arm, so that’s what I’ll go with.
The smell of armpit wafts into my nose. I haven’t showered in a few days. I’ve been too preoccupied with projects. Now, my throbbing arm pushes my overwhelming desire to shower to the back burner.
After fumbling into a pair of gray sweats and a black t-shirt, I step into the living room.
On the floor by the fireplace is my hospital discharge paperwork.
I kneel to pick them up, when the front door flies open, carrying leaves into the room and a draft that blows the papers into the low-burning flames.
The fire rises, lighting up my face and heating the room as it burns the papers hotter than it should.
A clawed hand rises from the inferno, landing on the ashes. The remnants slowly disappear as Mastyx brushes them away like dust on a table.
His hand slowly retreats into the flames, leaving fresh claw marks in its wake. My eyes get stuck on the fire as it decreases in intensity, Mastyx returning to his fiery abode.
Dr. Z flashes through my mind, and the fire rises higher.
My shin stings at the sudden lash of Mastyx’s tongue.
I leap away from the snake-like appendage and stare wide-eyed as it regresses to the fireplace and crimson soaks into the fabric of my sweats before trickling down my leg onto my foot.
I peer through the hole in my pants. It’s not a deep lashing, but it’s enough to send a wave of regret over me.
My eyes drift to my wall calendar, and an uncontrollable tremor washes over me.
The next full moon is brightly marked with a red heart.
He may kill me this time—take what he wants from me before ending my life and consuming my soul.
This is what I signed up for when I allowed him to save me from certain death.
I love my life most of the time, but I find myself wondering if I made the right choice.
Cheating death never ends well for anyone in the movies, and I expect one day I’ll end up in hell, where I belong.
There’s no sense in helping the universe by being reckless and having unclean thoughts. I empty my mind and focus on the task at hand, getting my ass to Urgent Care.
I drop my Ugg boots to the floor in front of me, sit in my armchair and pull them on one at a time. Exhaustion suddenly plagues me, and when I stand, my body sways a little, fighting to stay upright.
Is Mastyx doing this? Trying to keep me from leaving?
My fingers curl around the doorknob, and I swing the front door open, my heart leaping into my throat at the sight of Dr. Z ascending my porch steps.