Chapter 19
Do You Trust Me?
IRIS
It turns out Elliot’s meticulously organized room does have some utility. It only takes me a few seconds to find the drawer of neatly folded t-shirts and sweatpants. I yank on the first pair sitting on top, tying the knot as far as it’ll go.
They’re a faded shade of red, the color having bled from years of washing, and I’m more than a little surprised to find that the peeling lettering on the pocket reads “Crossmoore High Varsity Pitchball.”
Elliot never struck me as the Pitchball type. Not because he doesn’t have the skill for it. But mostly because I figured he lacked the requisite patience for team sports.
I would’ve sooner pegged him as a Flight & Field guy. Although given his size, Pitchball makes more sense, I suppose.
It’s strange to be taken aback by something so ordinary, but these pants are the only thing here that really tells you anything about Elliot.
Well, that’s not strictly true. A blank page could tell you something about a person, depending on how they fold it, whether they save it, or throw it away. And Elliot’s room, with its careful organization and faintly medicinal scent, tells me he doesn’t want anyone to know him.
It’s like he’s scrubbed every ounce of himself clean from the very walls.
But there are still these sweatpants. With the label that has his name scrawled in a handwriting I know isn’t his, and the spot on the left thigh that’s been rubbed raw from consistent scratching, or the teeth marks on the ends of the drawstrings.
I’d be willing to bet that if I check his other pants, they’ll have the same faded patch on the left thigh.
Years of fidgeting, he never outgrew. I’d also bet that if I went into Dame’s room, I’d find a similar pair of sweatpants.
Likely the reason Elliot ever signed up for Pitchball in the first place.
I decide not to rummage through his drawers to see what other “secrets” I can find, but I do take a moment to find his socks, digging through the pile until I find a pair that look like my feet won’t drown in them. I leave everything exactly as I found it before heading back downstairs.
Most everyone is already in the den, waiting for the festivities to start. But there are still a few people lingering in the hallways, slowly making their way, and a few who look like they’ll be staying behind.
“What’s up, Ashbourne?”
A grating voice calls as I pass by the third-floor common room. I hardly have to look to know who it is.
“Deacon,” I call back, turning on my heel.
He is standing beside the big suede sectional, idly swinging a rubber band around his finger. Beside him, Covington sits, nose deep in a book.
“Hi, Covington.”
He looks up, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.
“Oh, h-hi, Iris,” he mutters, before ducking his head and going back to his reading.
“What happened to you?” Deacon asks, eyeing my sweatpants. “Cross, make you change?”
The image of my soaked panties hanging torn between Elliot’s fingers almost makes me laugh.
“Yeah, something like that.”
Deacon shakes his head.
“Only a heartless man would cover up an ass like that.”
He grins, attempting a sly smirk. But it’s too stiff not to be practiced, and it’s too familiar to be original. I’d take one guess at where he learned it from.
“Yeah, well, when your boyfriend fucks you so hard your panties rip in half, it’s kind of hard to keep wearing your mini skirt.”
I shrug as if this is a daily occurrence, and Deacon tries desperately to smother the blush on his cheeks. Covington’s ears perk, but he doesn’t lift his gaze from his book.
“What’re you reading?” I ask.
He looks at me, holding up a little green leather-bound book.
“No title,” he says, shrugging.
“Oh, I’m almost through with that,” I say. “You like it so far?”
His finger is marking a page somewhere in the middle, and he nods.
“Yeah, it’s good. Not as good as Manhurst, but I like it.”
“Nothing’s as good as Manhurst,” I say.
“I don’t know,” Covington mutters. “That ending is pretty unrealistic.”
“Unrealistic?” I scoff. “What’s so unrealistic?”
“A woman slaughtering a man like Cedric? Seems outlandish.”
My eyes roll, and I remind myself why I never discuss Manhurst with men. They never get it.
Well, except Elliot.
Deacon, unable to be anything other than the center of attention for longer than five minutes, chimes in.
“I’ve been meaning to pick up a copy of that,” he says. “Know where I could snag one?”
“You could try the library,” Covington answers, before I have the chance to say the same.
In response, Deacon passes him a stern glare, but Covington and I are already laughing at him, which only further stiffens his brow.
I don’t stick around to see if he recovers.
Elliot is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. He and Dame are speaking in a hushed tone, but they stop as I reach the last few steps.
“Don’t stop on my account,” I say. “I love a good secret.”
“Yeah, we know,” Dame responds. “That’s why we stopped.”
I swat him in the arm as they both chuckle.
“Hey,” Dame mutters, still grinning. “You’re Crescent now, no hitting your alpha.”
I swat him one more time for good measure, and this time, it’s Elliot and me laughing at Dame.
“What is it with these girls, man?” Dame rubs the sore spot on his arm. “They’re hardheaded. Every single one of ‘em.”
I don’t know who else is on Dame’s shit list tonight, but whoever she is, she’s doing excellent work. He looks as if he’s five seconds from pulling out his hair as he turns back to Elliot. They exchange a quick handshake, and Elliot palms him something.
“Good luck, man,” Elliot whispers, but the quiet exchange is cut short as a voice shrieks from somewhere behind me.
“Ahh! You’re here!” Kitty squeals, and we all turn to see her bouncing on her toes at the top of the steps.
“You’re actually here!” She shouts. “I thought Dame was joking.”
She races down the stairs and ropes me into one of her backbreaking hugs.
“You’re going to love this,” she says. “It’s the best.”
She’s still crushing me close when Elliot wedges his arm between us, peeling her off.
“Easy, Kit. I like her breathing.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry.” Kitty blushes a deep red and releases me. “I’ll save you a good seat,” she says, winking at me before sauntering off toward the den.
“Alright!” Elliot hollers, shouting at the wolves idling throughout the house. “Let’s go! Move out!”
People come streaming in from every room, down the steps, and through the den before heading directly out the back door.
“We’re going outside?” I ask.
“Yeah, it’s a bit of a walk. Do you—” Elliot pauses, noticing my feet. “Are those my socks?”
I try for a polite smile as I wiggle my toes.
“My feet were hurting,” I say lamely.
“I’m sure they were in those stilts you call shoes.”
He leans forward, wrapping his arms around my thighs, and he lifts me onto his shoulder in one swift motion, giving me no opportunity to protest.
“Hey!” I shout as my feet leave the floor. “Put me down. I can walk.”
“I know. But I’m not letting you fuck up my socks,” he says, already following the trail of people out of the house.
I duck as we pass through the door, but he’s careful to dodge any low-hanging branches as we weave our way past the treeline and deep into the forest.
I don’t know how anyone knows where we’re going in this darkness, but the crowd seems familiar with the path. It continues far from the back porch, through the trees. After about ten minutes, the wide willows and the soft dirt grow more familiar.
“Elliot?” I mutter, palms sweating.
He looks up at me, those painfully keen eyes watching my expression crumble.
“Where are we going?” I ask, voice tight.
“Do you trust me?” he mutters, patting my thighs.
I nod, without hesitation.
Of course, I trust him. The last time we entered this grove, he solidified that fact. But that doesn’t stop my heart from trying to escape my body, and it doesn’t do anything to slow my breathing as we step into the clearing.
My fingers fist the fabric of his shirt as I brace, and Elliot adjusts his hold, scooping up my legs to cradle me instead. I consider closing my eyes when my heart starts to hammer, but the grove doesn’t look how I remember.
It was dark the night Grey died, pitch black and cold. So quiet you’d swear there wasn’t another soul for miles. And while there’s still a biting chill in the air tonight, the grove is anything but empty.
Large logs have been set out in a half-moon circle around a blazing fire, and the muddled sound of idle chatter fills the clearing as everyone claims their seats. All of them, seemingly oblivious to the bloodied soil beneath their feet.
I know he sees the hesitation in my eyes as his thumb takes to stroking a patch of skin above my knee, but he remains silent as we approach the pack.
Kitty has already claimed her place, and she is still bouncing with excitement as we draw nearer.
He sets me gently beside her, and we scoot down, making more room for his tall frame.
His arm comes around my shoulders as he stretches his legs out in front of him.
“Are you okay?” Elliot whispers. “We can go if you can’t—”
“You knew this would be out here?”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I thought it might help if you saw it in a different light. But I figured you’d never come if I told you.”
He’s right. I wouldn’t have.
I expected this place to feel like a memorial. A living memory of the monster lurking beneath the surface. But Elliot has once again rescued me from myself.
“You didn’t have to do this…” I mutter.
He didn’t have to do any of it.
He didn’t have to save me. He didn’t have to feed me. And he definitely doesn’t have to heal me. But he is trying regardless, and for that I am grateful.
“I know,” he says. “But I wanted to. And I would again. If you needed me to.”
His last words ring in my ears, drowning out the noise of the grove until all I can hear is the sound of my own heartbeat overlapping with his deep voice.