SEBASTION
THE THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT
When you’re me, you learn to sleep light. Or else.
If the floorboards creak on the opposite side of the house, you wake.
If there’s a rattle of a window, you notice, even if that rattle turns out to be a simple, soft kiss of the wind.
And if a woman continues to cry while she sleeps, night after night after fucking night, you crawl out of bed and stand in her doorway awhile just to see why.
For twenty consecutive nights, I’ve stood inside an otherwise silent home, and I’ve peeked into Scarlett’s room to find her making a mess of her bed.
Not a good mess, either.
The kind where her sheets wrap around her limbs like tentacles, her hair circles her throat tight enough to make me worry, and her legs slide, slide, slide back and forth until her restlessness threatens to send me insane.
She tosses and turns from the moment her eyes close until they open again in the morning. She wages war with her blankets and whimpers when, time and time again, they win.
She cries in her sleep and mutters things that make me reconsider my stance on her princess’y status, since royal folks usually control an army of protectors, and the things Scarlett cries about couldn’t possibly have happened to a princess safely guarded in a tower high in the sky.
So, not a princess. But a warrior. A fighter.
A dragon slayer.
For the twentieth night in a row, though the last six have been far easier to manage without Linc in the house, I press my back to the frame of her door and lower until my ass touches the floor.
I won’t stay all night. I won’t even stay long enough to risk her waking and seeing me, but for an hour, I find a little comfort in the warmth still pulsing from the fireplace in the living room.
I learned my lesson after the first night.
Resting my head back, tilting it to the side, and cataloging Scarlett at her most vulnerable, I talk myself down, as I’ve done every other night, from crawling closer and tugging the hair from around her throat.
It scares me.
While I’m there, I could untangle her legs from the sheets.
But I don’t do that either.
Waking her while she’s like this bears a far greater risk than any alternative.
So I bring my knees up instead, draping one arm over the peaks, and when my phone vibrates with an incoming text, I unlock it with my free hand and read the words populating my screen.
Mav:
When are you coming back? Folks are getting pissed. BIG pissed.
Exhaling a quiet sigh, I type a response.
Me:
La Bruja?
Mav:
Yep! You’re on the clock. If you don’t make a move soon, I see a convoy coming to you. And trust me, you don’t want that heat.
Me:
I’m a big boy, and threatening me with my mom stopped scaring me when I was eleven.
Not.
Arabella Aster is a terrifying beast no man survives meeting in battle.
Me:
I’m waiting on my contact out in Denver to tell me what’s happening. I can’t move until I know, and I can’t leave my mark here alone. La Bruja will have to wait.
Mav:
I’m just saying! Bastion is deteriorating, which means her tolerance for your tardiness is, too.
You’re willingly trading his last days for work?
Me:
Not willingly! But this chick I’m watching can’t be left alone.
Mav:
She a threat?
Me:
Only to her own psyche. She’s been through some shit, and she sure as fuck doesn’t want me here, but leaving is the wrong thing to do.
As soon as I know, you’ll know. You gotta keep La Bruja pacified until then.
How’s that thing with Chelsea? You still leaning that way?
I hear him laughing. Jesus, even with the eight driving hours between us, I know he’s cackling.
Mav:
We decided to go our separate ways. It was very respectful.
Me:
AKA: You got laid, you sampled the forbidden fruit, and now you’re done.
Mav:
You make it sound crass! Not wrong, but still, crass. She was happy with our arrangement, so don’t worry yourself.
You still talking to that other chick?
Serena?
Me:
I don’t talk to chicks, dumbass. Ever.
But I’ll sit in doorways and watch this one particular chick sleep, I guess.
I’ll guard her six, even when she screams and shouts and demands I go away.
I’ll grocery shop and let her toss food at my chest, and when she walks away, think of all the different ways I could redden her bitable ass in punishment for her disrespect… but I never actually touch.
There’s a first for everything, I suppose.
Me:
If you see Serena, keep on walking. Don’t get chatty, and don’t even think about romancing her.
Mav:
You laying claim? Shit, if I knew you were gonna change your stance on me sampling the women you’ve cut loose, I’d have sampled a little more, a lot sooner. Damn, Bas. You get to all the good ones before me.
Me:
Not staking a claim, idiot. I just don’t want her at our dinner table if you decide to bring her around when I’m back.
Scarlett whimpers in her sleep, twisting and cinching her hair-noose tighter.
Would it really be so bad if she woke up with me here? It’d scare her, but once I explained my intentions, she’d understand… right?
Absolutely fucking not.
Shaking my head, I bring my focus back down to my phone.
Me:
Stay away. Hold on to that leash I gave you. And if Uncle Bas is REALLY bad, call me. I’ll come.
Sending the message and locking my screen, I tip my head back and watch Scarlett from the corners of my eyes.
Guilt chews mercilessly through the lining of my gut, because, sure, she cries in her sleep every night.
She groans and moans and tangles herself up in the sheets.
But tonight, it’s worse. So much worse, because now tears glisten on her cheeks, small diamonds glittering in the moonlight.
It burns me a little to acknowledge they may be my fault.
I pulled her hair. I dragged her back into hell for a little while.
I did that.
And for the first time in my life, I feel bad for how my shitty actions have caused a woman pain.