six
The Merciful
When I get home from my excursion with Heath, I step into my darkened room, and my foot skids on a loose paper on the hard floor. I reach for the light switch, my heart somersaulting. I’m jumpy after my encounter with the dark side of Thorncrown. Flipping the switch, I glance around the room before bending to pick up the simple sheet of lined paper, now folded in half.
FOR IF THEY HAD BELONGED TO US, THEY WOULD HAVE REMAINED WITH US.
The words are printed on the paper in black ink, all capital letters. I stand there reading the note over and over, as if it might change if I read it enough times. As if it’s not just something that Heath dropped when he was here.
A shiver winds up my spine, and I push the door closed behind me, hugging myself and rubbing at the goosebumps from my arms. Why would Heath remind me I don’t belong, when he’s trying to make me participate in some deviant game the Hellhounds play? He clearly wants me here for the horrors of that night, when he’ll have gotten his fill of revenge and broken me. Maybe he dropped the note by accident, and he was saving it for after the game.
I don’t want to think about the alternative—that someone was in my room while I was gone. That makes more sense than the theory that Heath left it, but it’s four in the morning. Who else would be up this time of night, sneaking around and spying? How else would they know I was gone, and that the door was unlocked?
Guys aren’t allowed in the girls’ dorm, but there’s no reason a girl would leave this. I haven’t even made friends, let alone enemies.
Then again, Heath made it in.
Was it one of his friends? Maybe he told them the plan, the way we always told each other before we got into mischief. Everyone had places. Scout. Lookout. Escape artist.
But that theory doesn’t make sense either. If they’re anything like they were when we were kids—and I saw no indication otherwise today—they do everything together. They wouldn’t tell me to go if he wants me to stay. If he wants me here, so do Saint and Angel. And that’s what the note means. I don’t belong here, don’t belong with them, because I didn’t go along with their version of events four years ago.
This time, the shiver that runs through me makes my knees quake.
I blow out a breath and shake my head, calling on myself to stay calm and be rational. I have a small single room, thanks to my aunt, who thought that after all the time I spent hiding and homeschooling, a roommate would be overwhelming for me. There’s not much to the room, so I don’t think the note-dropper is still here, but I can’t be too safe. After grabbing my thick-soled clog in case I need to surprise an intruder with it, I check the closet and under my bed.
Finally I relax, lock my door, and crawl into bed. I open my bible and find the verse the note quoted, but I can’t focus on the lesson. The wet fabric between my legs calls for attention, and I return the book to the nightstand, closing it in the drawer as if it will witness my sins and judge.
Then I reach up under my nightshirt and pull my panties down my thighs. Between my legs feels swollen and achy, and I rub my thighs together for a minute, my drowsy mind drifting to the scene in the cave, the way Heath’s thing looked so much bigger, more brutish than when we were kids.
Which should not be prompting this response.
I should be scared, but every time I recall the fear, the place between my legs only gets hotter and more uncomfortable. At last, I throw off my handmade quilt, panting hard.
What is wrong with me?
I just got a letter that’s just a longer version of the ones that came through the window on bricks until Mom packed up my stuff and snuck me out of town in the middle of the night.
I roll over, burying my face in the pillow. My throat is tight with frustration and pain at the memory. That was the last time I ever saw Saint.
Until today.
The memory of his gaze wraps around me like warmth and comfort and shameful desires I don’t want to revisit. My skin prickles with a new rush of heat when I replay our meeting in the hall, how tall he’s gotten, well over feet, with massive shoulders and long hair pulled up into a neat bun.
A rush of goosebumps runs up my legs. He called me his sister. He still considers me family, even after everything. I huddle down, a new, throbbing warmth building in my lower belly.
No, no, no.
It’s bad enough that Heath stirs all these old memories and new feelings. But I can’t think that way about Saint. He’s my brother .
I jump up and pull on a fresh pair of sensible cotton panties. Sleeping without them feels too naughty, like tempting myself to sin. I stuff my hands under my pillow so I won’t be led to rub the burning heat like Heath did.
I don’t do that.
I’m not a heathen like him.
When I wake up later, the sun is streaming through the window, and I’ve missed my first class. I hurry to dress so I can get to Father Salvatore’s class. The thought of missing it makes my throat go dry. I search around for the note I got, thinking I should bring it to an adult, let the Sisters know someone was sneaking around last night.
But I can’t find it anywhere.
I try to remember where I put it before I fell into bed, exhausted from the chaos of the night, but I can’t remember where I set it down. Was it all a sleep-induced hallucination?
Without the note, what can I do? If I tell the sisters, they’ll ask why I was up and why my door wasn’t locked, how I didn’t wake when someone opened my door.
A chill settles heavy in my bones, and I stop with my hands raised, about to secure my bun into place. Did someone come into my room while I was sleeping and take the note?