Chapter Forty-Three
Night Terrors
Butch
He hadn’t been able to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her pale skin against the dark wall below. The image and need for her burrowed into his soul and fed the hunger that gnawed at him. His infatuation with Willow grew with each passing hour.
She didn’t belong chained downstairs like some animal. No, she should be upstairs, where it was warm, where she could cook for him, sit across the table, maybe even smile when he spoke to her. That was how it should be.
But for now, he had the camera.
He unlocked his phone, the glow of the screen washing his face in cold light.
His thumb trembled slightly as he opened the feed.
The picture flickered. Her small body lay curled beneath the sleeping bag.
Butch’s breath deepened. He rubbed his finger reverently over the glass, tracing the curve of her shoulder as though she could feel it.
Then she moved.
A twitch. Her hand clenched the air.
He frowned and zoomed in. Her body jerked again, more violent this time. A soft sound, barely a whimper, escaped the speaker, and something tightened in his chest.
“What are you dreaming about?” he murmured, leaning closer.
Her legs kicked under the blanket, her mouth opening with a silent word he couldn’t read on her lips.
The dream scared her, and the thought thrilled him. He could almost see the fear spilling through her mind, powerless to stop it, and trapped inside.
Then she bolted upright.
The piercing scream ripped through the small speaker. His heart seized; the phone slipped in his grip. For a second, he couldn’t breathe. Then the sound cut off abruptly. She froze, though her breathing remained ragged.
She rocked forward, arms wrapped around herself, with small whimpers spilling out. The intimate noise filled his head.
Butch was already moving.
He stumbled out of bed. He didn’t notice the nightstand until his thigh slammed into the corner of it. The sharp edge tore through his thin pajama pants. White-hot pain flared, and he hissed through his teeth.
The shock shot down his leg and made his toes curl. But it didn’t matter. The pain only drove him faster.
He reached the basement door and fumbled with the latch. His fingers shook, and it took several tries. Finally, it gave way. The door burst open, and light spilled before him. It stabbed his eyes, but he didn’t care. He had a clear path to her now.
Her scream still echoed in his head. He wanted to see her face.
She turned toward him with wide, glistening eyes, and something inside him went painfully soft.
“Are you okay, Willow?” he asked, his voice gentle.
She flinched at the sound of it, her body jerking backward like he’d struck her.
Her fear was something holy.
“Come upstairs with me, and I’ll make you hot cocoa.”
Though he didn’t want to, he backed up slightly to give her time to calm. The chain attached to her ankle rattled. He removed the keys from his pocket and tossed them on the bed.
“It’s the small one. I’ll wait for you upstairs.”
He had to know what she would do, and as soon as he was at the kitchen table, he looked at the screen again. She hadn’t moved, but he waited.
She turned her head, found the keys, and made quick work of the lock. The shackle released. She stood, and walked to the door. He switched cameras.
He expected her to look around, to take in the walls, the door, the possibilities for escape, but that’s not what happened. There was no flicker of calculation in her eyes, no furtive glance toward the door that led outside. She simply walked straight toward the stairs. Toward him.
He watched the camera until she passed out of view. A strange ache twisted through him. She hadn’t even tried to run. Did she trust him? No, but maybe she had accepted him. There was a difference, but he wouldn’t think too hard on it yet.
He slid the phone into his pocket and moved to the small counter. The kitchen light hummed faintly as he filled the kettle and set it on the burner.
When he turned, she was already there in her usual chair with her shoulders drawn in and her hands folded in her lap. She didn’t look at him at first, only at the table.
“It’s instant coco,” he said. His voice came out rougher than he intended, and he cleared his throat.
She nodded, the smallest movement, but her gaze lifted to his. It was like a warm hand pressed softly against his chest.
He tore open two packets of powder and poured them into mugs. “Marshmallows?”
Another nod. He added more than he usually used. Three minutes later, the kettle whistled softly, and he poured the water. He placed the mug in front of her.
She murmured something he didn’t catch, then lifted the mug. The first sip was cautious, almost childlike. He watched her lips touch the rim, watched the small wrinkle of her brow as the heat met her tongue. He almost reminded her that it was hot, but the words stuck in his throat.
Then her eyes found his.
“You’re the first person in my life who’s made me hot chocolate.”
The sound of her voice hit him harder than he expected. Its soft, melodic tone made something tighten deeper within him.
“Your mother never made you hot chocolate?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
Her eyes dropped to the table again. “She was an alcoholic. She rarely cooked. I don’t remember her ever being kind to me.”
The sentence hung there heavily. He stared at the top of her bowed head, at the way her hair fell forward, hiding her face. His chest constricted.
“What about your father?” he asked.
She went still. A faint tremor ran through her hands as she set the mug down. “He was worse,” she said. The words came out hollow, scraped clean of emotion, but that emptiness was the emotion.
Her voice painted the image for him: a little girl standing before her father, afraid to move or speak. He could almost see it. Something snapped inside him. Not with violence, but with an emotion he’d never felt. He couldn’t even describe what emotion it was.
All at once, his obsession shifted shape. She wasn’t just someone to possess; she was someone broken, and she needed him. All her sharp edges had been carved by her parents, just like it had been for him.
“Did you move out when you were eighteen?” he asked.
Her eyes stayed steady on his. “No. I killed my father.”
He blinked.
“I was fifteen. I went to prison and got out a year ago. My last name has changed, but you can still look up the case. Willow Humphreys. My grandmother Joan Morgan made the news, too. She went to the trial.”
Excitement nearly exploded in his chest.
He didn’t need to fix her. She was perfect exactly as she was.