Twenty-Two Wrong
Sienna
Oh good, he’s still stalking me.
Hiding behind my curtain, I watch him watch my house from the Winchesters’ porch. He hasn’t moved in days — sometimes he stays there so long that I wonder if he’s still breathing — and I swear it gets creepier every time he does it.
It also gets harder to stay inside.
I haven’t left since our fight, partially because I was embarrassed and heartbroken but mostly because I’m not ready to face him. One little touch had me ready to cave in the car, so now that I’ve had time to cool off and think about all of this, I don’t know how to stay mad at him.
He’s scared. He lied because he was scared he wouldn’t have anywhere to go if I didn’t take him in, and he had no reason to believe I’d just open my door to him unless he made it seem like I didn’t have a choice. It was clever, actually. I’ll give him that. The fake parole officer, the fake papers, the clause about the bed... he definitely put some effort in to make it seem real.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it? If he could fake something like that so easily and never seem to regret it, what else is he faking? What else will he lie about as we get older?
It’s hard to believe any of it was real. I get the fact that he messed around with some guys in prison since he could only say he never “fully” fucked any of them, but now I’m questioning if he really was a virgin. As much as I hate to think about it, some people start early. There are female guards and nurses in prisons. Lawyers. Lots of people who could’ve used their power to their advantage, as sick as it is. I just... find it really hard to believe anyone learns how to please a woman that well that fast, books or not.
His desire for my submission didn’t feel fake, but I’m learning not to trust my own instincts when it comes to him. I’d been so desperate for someone to get me out of my own head and take control for once that I ignored so much, colored so many red flags green.
And I miss it.
God, I miss it. Him. The way my stomach flutters and my breath catches when he looks at me, touches me. I miss the way it feels knowing he’s in bed next to me, that he’ll protect me. Hold me. Be there when I wake up, putting an end to the solitude I’ve held onto for years.
I miss his laugh and the deep little growl in his voice when he tells me to ask nicely. The glint in his eyes when he switches from goofball to dominant.
The way I trusted him before I learned I can’t.
Dropping my eyes, I exhale slowly and close the curtain again. But the moment I do, my phone chirps, a quiet little notification that he definitely saw me watching and also saw when I stopped.
Osiris: Come back
This fucking guy. Scowling, I try to keep the same “fuck him” energy up, but all I want to do is sprint down the street and curl up next to him.
Me: Go away.
Osiris: Not going anywhere, Sienna. I’ll prove it to you one day
Osiris: You’re mine
There’s nothing I can say back to that. I can’t agree, but I can’t disagree either. I still feel like his even if it feels sour now.
I also can’t hide forever. I need groceries since he ate almost everything in my house, I need deodorant, and I just need to get out and get some fresh air.
I’ve been inside too long.
With metaphorical blinders on, I grab my keys and dart toward my car in the drive.
I shouldn’t be surprised by how quickly he gets to me, but when I’m being pinned to the door before I can even open it I’m absolutely positive I’m not breathing anymore. “Where are you going?”
His scent surrounds me, making it hard to remember anything at all, let alone anger.
“To the store. You ate all my food,” I deadpan. “Please leave.”
“I’ll go with you.” His hand finds my hip with a promising grip. “I miss you so fucking much.”
Honestly, my pussy can go to hell. That bitch is such a bad influence at the worst times — including now.
“Osiris, I said no,” I say more firmly. “Unless you’re prepared to spill your guts and tell me absolutely everything right here, you need to get out of my driveway.”
“You already know everything, baby. Don’t you miss me too?”
He grinds his hard length against me, and leans in for a kiss that I’m not quick enough to dodge.
The way my whole body responds to his lips is criminal. Immediately, it’s possessive and consuming like he knows I’m about to push him away.
And I do, I just hate it. “I’m serious, Si. Leave. Please.” This time I shove him. “No please, just leave. I’m not asking.”
“Fuck,” he growls, reaching down to adjust himself. “I’m sorry I lied, okay? Why fight this?”
Because even his apologies sound like lies. “I’m not fighting anything. I just told you that for us, it’s mostly mental, and you set fire to that. This isn’t on me, so quit acting like I’m the one keeping us apart.”
“No, I’m not blaming you for anything. I know it’s my fault I don’t have anyone, Sienna. It’s real fucking clear, but how the fuck am I supposed to fix this if you ignore me? You want me to beg? You want me to get down on my knees right here? Because I will.”
No, because then I’ll cave. Maybe I should, who knows. But right now I’m hurt and a little scared, and I can’t bring myself to just let that go.
Without saying anything else, I get in the car and try not to look directly at him as I drive away. He lets me which is a start, but as he fades from view, I begin to feel the weight of it all settling on top of me.
Why doesn’t anyone ever talk about how hard it is to discern the difference between self-preservation and self-sabotage? I’m telling myself over and over again that keeping him away is for my own good, but if that’s the case, why are the tears in my eyes coming so forcefully that I have to pull over?
God, my heart breaks because of him, but also for him, too. Whether it’s his fault or not, he’s right. He has no one. Just an ex-cellmate who couldn’t keep up a simple ruse and a couple of old guys who don’t know what they’re getting themselves into. That’s not a support system. That’s not solid. That’s not love.
I realize too late that I only made it about a half a block before the crying made me pull over. My car door opens, and I don’t need to be able to see to know who it is.
“Fuck, baby. Don’t cry.” He somehow manages to maneuver me into his arms a second after he climbs into the passenger seat. Neither of us says a word for a while, and when he does speak again, he catches me off guard. “Tell me how to get to Lydia’s. I’ll drive you there. I’ve been practicing what you taught me with Stephan after you go to bed every night, so I know how to drive now.”
I’m so proud of him I could strangle him. The warring emotions make it harder to stop crying, so I pull her address up on GPS and just point to it. Talking will only get me in trouble, and the more I think about how unfair his life has been and how sweet he remained despite it, the more I want to go back in time and kill his dad for him.
It’s... very confusing.
It takes everything inside of me to ignore the way he inhales my hair before kissing my head, and how gentle he is when he gets me into my seatbelt. He has to move my seat back before he can start driving, and when he does you can’t even tell he’s still learning. Maybe he truly is just a fast learner.
I don’t miss the way he slows down as we get closer though, like he’s killing time just to be with me even though I haven’t said a word that wasn’t just an incoherent sob. I don’t understand what’s happening to me.
It’s to the point that when we get to Lydia’s and he knocks on her door, I don’t know what to say to her. She takes one look at me and starts yelling at him — which just makes me feel worse — but Si just listens, asks her to take care of me, and then starts walking back the way we came.
I want to tell him to stop, or to at least take the car and I’d have Lydia drive me home later, but I don’t. I don’t say anything at all as he rounds the corner and she tugs me inside.
Here’s hoping she can decipher what’s wrong with me, because I sure as hell can’t.