Chapter 18 Reverie #2
I keep my eyes closed, even as I feel him move toward me. His breath fans across my face, indicating he’s crouched in front of me, but I still don’t acknowledge him.
Nineteen… twenty… twenty-one… twenty-two…
He says nothing. Neither do I.
He knows I’m not sleeping, and he knows I know he knows.
Yet, still, we say nothing.
Twenty-eight… twenty-nine… thirty… thirty-one…
He gets up, and I hear him moving around the room. Objects clatter, fabric shifts, bags crinkle, and I hold my breath.
One hundred ten… one hundred eleven… one hundred twelve… one hundred thirteen…
Papers shuffle, furniture moves, drawers slide, and I continue to hold my breath.
One hundred eighty-one… one hundred eighty-two… one hundred eighty-three… one hundred eighty-four…
I tremble, my lungs screaming and dogs barking in the distant recesses of my mind. I hear myself laughing, then feel my eyes burn.
One hundred eighty-eight… one hundred eighty-nine… one hundred ninety…
I exhale, but the rush of oxygen inflating my lungs isn’t soothing.
It hurts.
And I wonder if this is why my mother chose to suffocate, too. Because it's agonizing to inhale.
Dread’s presence returns. I feel the air move as he throws my pillow at the top of the bed and then leans over my legs to pull the sheet down beneath the mattress again. When he’s finished, my computer chair rolls toward me, and he sits on it.
I slowly open my eyes, finding him exactly where I thought he’d be. He leans forward, his elbows perched on his knees, and holds something in his hands. It looks like a piece of paper, a newspaper clipping, a knife, and… hair.
A chunk of black, curly hair, tied together with a tiny elastic band at the top. Notably without the follicles attached.
The urge to vomit arises again, but the lid on my emotions stays in place for now.
I’m not ready to address what he’s holding, because the moment I do, I might not be strong enough to keep the lid on.
So, I glance around the room instead. It looks exactly as it did when I left it three days ago.
Clean, organized, not a thing out of place outside of the items that were broken and are now bagged in a trash bag by the door.
Except the man sitting in front of me.
I don’t understand why he cleaned, but I don’t care enough to ask.
I meet his stare, and though his expression is blank, there’s something sinister swirling in his gaze.
“The note was pinned to your desk with this knife next to transfer papers, the newspaper, and this piece of hair,” he explains evenly, still giving nothing away.
My eyes drag up to the wooden desk behind his right shoulder, where he neatly stacked my textbooks next to my lamp with the now missing cracked light bulb.
“Oh.”
I’m slow to return my gaze to his. When I do, the darkness in them has deepened.
“What’s it say?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“‘There’s nowhere for you to go but home, Angel.’” His answer is monotone, but Dread has never been emotionless where my father’s concerned. He’s just good at keeping his emotions contained.
Until he’s not.
“Gotcha.” He raises an eyebrow at my lack of reaction. I just… don't know what I'm supposed to say or do at this point.
I clear my throat, forcing my brain to function a little more so we're not stuck staring at one another in tense silence.
“And the clipping? What's that about?”
He huffs out a small, quiet laugh. “An article written while he was on trial about how amazing of a father he is, and how lucky Little Miss Charlotte D’Amour is for having him.”
I would vomit if I had the energy.
But I don't.
“They can have him,” I say quietly.
Dread studies me carefully, seeming almost inquisitive, as if he's trying to figure out a math equation. I don't like it, so I nod toward the hair in his hand.
“That doesn’t look like Mindy Sackler’s hair,” I whisper.
One of the first things I did after storming out of the cafeteria was look up Mindy, only to discover the girl in the cafeteria who accused me of taking her was being very serious. Her name is Gabi Loren, and she’s Mindy’s best friend.
Mindy’s social media was flooded with family and friends posting about her, begging others to help them find her. Each and every post and comment chipped away a piece of my heart until nothing remained by the time I stopped torturing myself with them.
I flipped through dozens of pictures of Mindy, wearing that pink barrette in several of them, and all with her smiling or making some goofy face. She seemed like a fun, outgoing girl who had an entire life ahead of her.
Not anymore.
I sent every picture of her wearing the hair clip to Barry. Problem is, one Google search proved exact replicas of it can be ordered online, and according to Barry, the one in my dorm had no trace of DNA on it. It could very well be hers, but it also could be Lionel fucking with my head.
I'd bet money it’s hers, but there's no way to prove it. He left it in my dorm the day after she went missing.
That’s no coincidence.
Regardless, the hair Dread holds now looks nothing like Mindy’s, but it’s only a small relief.
“What about Roxi? What color is her hair?” Dread asks, pulling my attention back to him.
I tighten my lips. “Black. Curly. Exactly like the hair you’re holding.”
He’s quiet for a beat. “We should make sure she’s alive.”
“She is,” I say, my tone scarcely above a whisper. He arches a brow, silently asking for an explanation. “It’s a threat. He’s telling me to come back to Silent Mist instead of running. If I don’t…”
I don’t need to finish the rest.
Dread briefly rolls toward the desk to grab a thin stack of papers and then shows them to me. “Transfer papers to a school in London,” he says, confirming what I said.
I nod. “Yeah.”
That’s it.
There’s nothing else to say or give.
“Do you think he’s here this time?” he asks.
I shrug a shoulder. “Won’t know until his parole officer checks. Could've been Roxi herself.”
A small crease forms between his brows, appearing unconvinced. “You think she’d do something like this? Threaten you? Wouldn’t that disprove he’s this good guy she believes him to be?”
“Maybe. But he’s really good at manipulating people, and he’s had her under his spell for years now. Anyone can make someone believe they’re good if they spin it in a way that makes it seem justifiable. Why do you think evil politicians have so many supporters? Why do you think you have so many?”
He hums, clearly not offended. “Good point. But he didn’t need to trash your room and threaten you to make you stay. I would’ve done that myself.” There isn’t a hint of amusement on his face.
The lid over my emotions is frosted glass. I can see their faint shadows swirling beneath, trying to escape, but I can’t see what they are. I imagine fury and humiliation. Panic, resentment, hate.
My expression stays blank as seconds tick by. With a sigh, I sit upright and swipe my bangs out of my eyes. They’re getting too long.
“I still might go. I don’t want anything bad to happen to Roxi, but I don’t exactly want him to kill me, either.”
“He won’t.”
He’s so confident about that. Doesn’t possess a single atom of doubt in his body. I, however, can’t relate.
“You can’t stop me from leaving.”
As soon as the words spill past my lips, I instantly know they were a mistake. Not because he can stop me, but because I challenged the fucker, and now, he’s going to go the extra mile to sabotage me.
Another sigh. My stupid-ass mouth just made a lot of shit harder for me.
He juts out his bottom lip and nods, as if what I said was interesting, reacting exactly how I knew he would.
“Okay. Come sit,” he orders.
He stands and tosses the hair and note on the bed beside me, nodding down at the chair. “I’ll let you fill out your paperwork. If you can finish, you can go to London, and I’ll watch over Roxi instead.”
My mouth parts, and I side-eye him with wariness. There’s a catch to it, obviously. There’s always a catch.
Yet, he keeps his expression perfectly clear of his intentions.
“I think I’d prefer to do it on my own time,” I say cautiously.
He cocks a brow. “Do it now, or no deal.”
If I’m being honest, I’m sure I could work out a way to do what I need to do behind Dread’s back, but I also wouldn’t put it past him to straight-up lock me up. As he said before, I’m his favorite instrument, and he won’t let me disappear without a huge fight.
“My little violin.”
A shiver crawls down my spine from the memory of him whispering that to me in the pool.
Butterflies swarm my stomach while the emotions fester beneath the lid, pushing against it until it slowly starts to pop off.
My body has gone rogue, and despite me throwing all my weight onto that lid, I’m in a losing battle.
I force the memory away and focus on him.
“What’s the catch, Dread?” I ask with a heavy exhale.
I really don’t have the energy to fight.
“You’re going to find out. Now, get on the chair, or I’ll make you.”
I glance at the door, estimating how likely it is for me to get past him and run.
“I dare you.” The deep timbre of his voice vibrates with warning, clocking what I’m thinking.
I work to swallow and opt out of responding. Better I stay silent and not antagonize him into blowing it off the rest of the way. I’d rather remain in the comfort of my indifference, and I don’t trust my vocal cords to operate properly, anyway.
So, I clench my jaw, stand, and sit on the chair, tension inflating my muscles. The surrounding air thickens as he rolls me to my desk and sets the paperwork on the wooden surface before me. He plucks a pen out of the cup holding several writing utensils and tosses it on the desk.
I’m frozen.
Something is coming, especially because he didn’t roll me completely up to the desk and left a good several feet in between.
He moves to stand in front of me, and my spine snaps straight, alert and wary.
My heart skips a beat when he bends at the waist and lowers his face to mine. I lean away from him, but it does nothing to help me breathe easier. The tendrils of hair falling over his eyes only deepen the intensity radiating from his heated stare.
He reaches for the button on my jeans, and I instantly grab them to stop him, ignoring the feeling of my hands holding his. I’ll never understand how even the simplest of touches awakens something deep inside me.
“What are you doing?” I ask, though it comes out more like a demand.
One corner of his mouth curls upward, and my stomach tightens around the butterflies taking flight within me.
“I’m hungry, so while you fill out your paperwork, I’m going to eat.”
My heart drops, and that lid goes flying off. Everything releases at once, and I’m flooded with a rushing wave of emotions—so many, I don’t know how to discern a single one. So while a million different protests build on my tongue, I can only manage one.
“Absolutely not,” I snap, attempting to get up from the chair.
He’s quick to grab my hips, his hands like massive bear paws pinning me down. My limbs tremble with the need to escape this—him.
“After what you did? Posting that fucking picture online? You think I’m going to allow you to touch me again?” I spit, familiar fury swirling in my chest.
He holds no remorse as he asks, “Are you trying to make me feel bad for posting a picture with my girlfriend?”
Thunderstruck, I sputter at him before I manage to get a handle on my tongue. “I’m not your girlfriend!”
His grin widens, and he leans in until his lips are within an inch of mine, overwhelming me with his mouthwatering amber and sandalwood scent. He glances down at my mouth before flicking his stare back up to meet my eyes.
I tremble, my nerves tingling. The soft strands hanging over his forehead tickle my cheek, sending another shiver down my spine.
“Should we skip to wife?” he asks sensually, his voice hushed. I know he’s fucking with me, trying to get beneath my skin. The mirth in his gaze gives him away.
Except, it’s working. I can’t breathe. I know I’m angry—I feel it. At least, I think I do. There’s a fire in the pit of my stomach, yet it’s sinking lower, and I’m having trouble extinguishing it.
“Delete the picture,” I croak.
He needs no elaboration.
He cocks a brow. “What would that accomplish? It’s already out there. There’s no taking it back.”
“I’ll tell everyone it was AI,” I counter.
He grins, wrinkles framing eyes that glimmer with mirth as he briefly glances at my lips again, then says, “Okay.”
I don’t even know why I try. There’s no getting through to him, no changing his mind.
He’s a psycho—it’s useless to expect him to be anything else.
“Get away from me,” I say instead. “You’ve crossed so many lines, you might as well have leaped over a trench at this point.”
He hums an amused sound before murmuring, “If that’s what you want, then you better finish your paperwork.”