Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Iwas still sitting in the same position with my head and arms hunched over my knees, blocking out the world, when I heard footsteps approach.
They were heavy and moved quickly, becoming louder as they got closer.
I wanted to look up. I wanted to see who they belonged to, but I couldn’t.
I couldn’t bring myself to do anything. I could smell the faintest scent of burning, but it was hardly noticeable–overpowered by the acrid, metallic smell that clutched at me and wouldn’t let go.
The rest of the world around me was a blur.
My eyes burned with the now dry tears that had streaked down my face.
Two hands–steady, and firm–found their way around my waist and pulled me into a standing position, cradling me against the firm warmth of a chest. I opened my eyes for just a moment, and all I could see was red.
Red hands. Red clothes. Red spatters across my shoes.
Everything, everything, was shrouded in that deep, vibrant liquid.
“I’ve got you.”
Their soft, gentle words wrapped around me like a safety blanket as they held me close.
A tender hand stroked my hair that had fallen from its ponytail.
I gripped onto the fabric of the T-shirt, balling it in my fists as if it were the last tether to my sanity.
I took in another pull of breath. The sweet, familiar smell of campfire wood anchored me to the spot.
I shifted, trying to get closer, bury myself deeper in the safety of the embrace.
Whether from sheer exhaustion or lack of balance, I stumbled, expecting the ground to rise up and meet me, but the arms around me held firm.
The soft, tentative kiss that pressed into the side of my temple reignited the tears that came streaming down my face.
It was brief, but the effect of it lingered long after the brush of the lips had left my face.
Like a parent would with a child to make it all better.
It seemed to temporarily take all my pain away.
And once I started to cry, I couldn’t stop.
I cried and cried and cried, the dam inside me bursting with months of emotions I’d been holding onto.
I cried in the uncertainty of what I’d done.
I clutched tighter at the fabric, fisting it and pulling it closer to me at the same time the embrace around me loosened.
Two large hands gripped my cheeks with a firmness I knew I could trust as my face was tilted upward.
And still all I saw was red.
Red eyes.
Red hair.
It’s terrifying. I hate it. I hate all of it.
And yet, it might just be my favourite colour.
“Sterling.”
I allowed my head to sag as one hand moved from my face to my shoulder to steady me as I continued to teeter in the haze of my own shock.
“Sterling.” A name. My name. Unmarred. Untainted. “Hey, I think you’re in shock. I’m going to get you home, but we need to sort this out.”
Can a thing like this ever be fixed? Can a thing like this truly be sorted out?
The whole situation was absurd. Ridiculous.
Insane. And for a moment, all I could do was laugh or let out a huff of air.
I felt crazed and chaotic, and before I knew it, my tears had returned with a vengeance, painting my face with my own shame and guilt.
My head lulled again as I struggled to withstand my own fatigue, the adrenaline finally leaving my body. My knees buckled beneath me, and I felt myself drop momentarily before being steadied again. “This might get me into hell.”
“Jesus, hey, look at me.”
I looked up into the deep pools of claret wine, forgetting how to breathe in the process.
Or maybe I’d already forgotten because my breath was ragged, choked, and uneven.
I stared up into his eyes, trying to understand the vulnerability and pain I saw.
I wanted to lose myself in them. I wanted to let them drown me.
I wanted his eyes to wash away the scary, terrifying thoughts, and if they couldn’t do that, well, I wanted them to be the last thing I ever saw.
“I need to fix this, okay?” the voice said softly. “Are you able to make a wish for me? I’ll need help from the book for this.”
I nodded. “I wish…” I struggled to get the words out, afraid that if I opened my mouth, I’d let slip every emotion I’d spent too long fighting to hide. “I wish this would all go away.”
He pressed another lingering kiss to my forehead before pulling me closer. “Good girl.”
No. I was meant…meant to be more…specific. And then the blur of greys and blues and white and red. So much red; it went black.
My emotions crept through the dark cracks of myself before I’d even noticed they were gone.
And all I was left with was a feeling of numbness that was both overwhelming and exhausting.
They say it’s a survival mechanism some people experience—a dissociative response to trauma.
But for me, this was exactly who I’d always been.
My body had an innate ability to protect itself from emotions that were too distressing to deal with.
It compartmentalised everything until I struggled to link my feelings to my own triggers.
A part of me always knew that those feelings were there.
I knew they were swirling around inside me.
But they were buried deep, buried in that long-forgotten part of myself, I hoped I would never have to visit again.
And as the frantic memories of that night faded into my subconscious, I knew in that moment, in the hollowed-out version of myself, that I would never fully be able to process this.
Not because I didn’t want to. But because I couldn’t.
Because that wasn’t how I worked. Like everything else, I would push this into one of the deep corners of myself until it simply became a part of me.
A part of me that hated hair gel.
A part of me that hated pinstriped suits.
A part of me that had a fear of walking in the dark or feeling trapped.
And the tears I would shed in the aftermath of this would be for triggers, I couldn’t quite rationalise. For things, I couldn’t quite understand.
The kitchen felt dimly lit, illuminated by a solitary orange lamp–the colour so at odds with the cool, lingering feeling that calcified in my chest. I dropped my gaze to the palms of my hands, which were clean.
Spotless. Normal. The back of my head was searing and bruised when I brought my hand to it but there was not a lump or scab or hair out of place.
That one scene in The Shining always felt so unrealistic.
But every time I closed my eyes, a torrent of deep, crimson liquid poured into the forefront of my mind.
I choked out a sob as I clutched at my knees, needing something to steady me.
To anchor me. Thallor stalked out of my bedroom not even a second later with a clean set of pyjamas and a fisherman sweater I’d thrifted years ago.
His expression was unreadable–where it was usually blank or stony–he now seemed to be experiencing a whole spectrum of emotions.
Concern? Anger? Relief? I saw it all when I looked at him.
Is that all for me?
He lifted one hand to gently stroke away the tears streaming down my face. My heart thrummed against my chest as I did everything in my power not to lean into it. “You’re safe,” was all he said as he dropped the clothes from his other arm onto the table.
“Arms up,” he said softly. It wasn’t a question.
It wasn’t a command. Just a statement. Something that would be good to do, but ultimately, it was my choice if I wanted to do it.
My eyes dropped down to my clothes again, each and every breath pulling from my chest in ragged, laboured gasps.
“Eyes here, Sterling.” And he pointed to where his gaze was locked on mine.
I held up my arms tentatively before he pulled up the black long-sleeve top plastered to my body. Half damp, half covered in trash and grime, and half covered in…
Thallor’s eyes remained locked on mine as he pulled off my shirt.
I was wearing little other than a thin lace bralette and the layered necklaces I’d put on earlier that evening.
“I’m going to stand behind you, okay?” he said gently as he moved so that I was no longer facing him, but out into my silent apartment.
He reached over the table to the folded pile of clothes, pulling from the heap my camisole and then my sweater.
“May I remove this?” he asked quietly from behind me.
For a moment, I didn’t say anything, expecting him to simply continue.
But he held resolute in his stillness, waiting for my response.
It took me a few moments to realise he was waiting for me to confirm if I was comfortable with him undressing me.
My mind was all over the place, but given that he’d stepped behind me so my body wasn’t exposed to him as he helped me out of my blood-soaked clothes, I nodded once.
I held my arms forward before pulling them through each of the undone straps of my bra.
For a demon–one that had actively shown little regard for human emotion–Thallor moved with meticulous precision.
Taking a washcloth from the pile and running it under warm water, he began to remove all the grime from my body.
He moved with a gentleness that felt just for me, washing each and every horrible memory of tonight from my skin.
Each and every movement was slow and tender, bringing his hands as close to my skin without ever actually touching me as he helped me into my pyjama shorts.
Once I was dressed, he picked me up and sat me on the counter before moving the chair from the makeshift desk in my bedroom to the kitchen sink.